The morose poet Mayakovsky sits down next to her,
And, just so that she cannot mistake his intentions, says:
—I do not exist.
Ok, she can cope with that.
—But you’ll have an orange juice… or a coffee, won’t you? You look like you need something.
The magic hour. He watches the bumbling carp in the dark green, ornamental, artificial pond.
The moths hitting the surface tension.
He notices the sun’s oblique ray and shifts himself slightly, such that it now comes in over his left ear — more raffish — although, since he and the woman are on the same bench, identically facing, the effect is rather lost.
After he has watched enough:
—You know what I’m going to bring you, don’t you, says Mayakovsky. What my message is going to be.
—I do, says the woman.
—So should I bring it yet?
—I think you should get something, there’s a cafe, it’s only a kiosk, but I’d be happy to…
It’s a false-start, he knows he must recover the situation quickly or lose the opportunity.
—It’s not really hunger, it’s more melancholy. I have medication for it.
He reaches over with his lips and kisses her.
Continue reading “In Parkland (Preview)”