a dog who knew my name
Part 1. Monday.
Alarm is not a sound, but a dry, needle stab in the incense. The body itself, unconscious intervention, turns off the button, turns, lowers the legs on the cold floor. Ritual. Mechanics carved over thousands of the same East. The light through the blinds is not like rays, but like a viscous, liquid metal that fills the room weight that you have to push your shoulders towards the bath.
Water in the shower is not fresh, but only the temperature. It smoothes the skin to the exclusive limit, rubbing it until the body becomes only a surface, only the outline without the inside. I get dressed. Cheap shirt synthetics fits into the back. In the kitchen - a coffee machine. His murmur is the only real thing in the entire apartment, a monotonous, reliable inclusion in the vacuum of silence. A cup in hand. Black, tar -flavored emptiness without any promise.
And then, through the window, the first mismatch.
On the street, on the other side of the road, a man with a dog stands. A regular image has been seen hundreds of times. But something is wrong. The dog's legs. They are noticeably too long, disproportionate to the body as if anyone had stretched the animal's image vertically. Thin, almost strap. The host holds the leash, smokes. His face is blurred, but a smile, even at a distance, looks too wide, as if drawn on his face later, not in place. It does not express any emotions, only self -satisfaction, geometric fact.
For a moment, I freeze with a cup at the lips. I open my eyes. The image does not change. The dog raises his absurdly long leg. The man drops the dump and thorns the name. They go away. The street is empty again, normal.
I shook my head. The sound in the ears is like a decay of sand.
I probably didn't sleep.
When locking the door, the fingers obstruct the key, barely playing it. Heavy. Lead. Like not mine.
Part 2. Tuesday.
The same stab in the incense. The same path towards the bathroom, only this time the viscous light metal is heavier and the floor is colder. Coffee is even bitter, as if someone had a bile into it. The usual layer of fatigue, which covers the world, today is thicker, with a strange, rainbow shade, like an ointment stain in the puddle.
I go outside. The sounds of the city are suppressed as if they were listening to them too thick glass. The murmur of cars, the distant siren of the siren, the rattling of neighbors - everything blends into a seamless, low frequency abundance that vibrates in the skull bone rather than in the ears. Going on the sidewalk includes the feeling that my own steps have a strange, lagging echo. Left. Klonk. Right. Klonk. The sound lags behind in a second, as if it were not for me, but to the invisible counterpart to me.
And again he.
in the same place. A man with long -haired. Today I see them clearer. The man's clothes are gray, shapeless, but the shoes are bright red, varnished. Absurdly bright in the gray background of the morning. The dog's coat does not shine naturally, but as if smeared with oil. They stand still as a poorly incorporated sculpture. As I pass, the man turns his head. His too broad smile is now pointing directly at me. She says nothing. She just is. Captures me.
The sidewalk tiles under my feet are barely noticeable as if I went through a thin ice.
I don't look at him. I focus on my breath. Inspiration. Exhalation. Rhythm. I try to regain control. I will force reality to obey. My gaze is stuck behind the car license plate. LTH 517. I repeat in my mind. LTH 517. This is a fact. That's real. Iron, a fragment of reality embossed into the asphalt. LTH 517.
I turn around the corner. I inspire deeply.
What was the number there?
The numbers slip out of memory like slippery mercury drops, leaving only an empty, vibrating space where there was just a solid fact.
Part 3. Wednesday.
The night ruptured, not ended. I woke up not from the alarm, but from the silence - so deep and tinning that the world seemed to be just stopping. The alarm turned on later, already sitting on the edge of the bed, and its sound turned out to be a stranger, intruded.
Today everything has a texture. The air is grainy as if I were breathing in fine dust. Water - oily. The coffee grounds at the bottom of the cup are reminiscent of fractured ground. I try to remember what I dreamed of. Nothing. Only black, velvety weight on the chest.
Going to work, the city begins to show its seams. The corners of the buildings are no longer steep, but barely tapering, as if the entire urban landscape would be drawn by a hurried, perspective artist. The traffic lights are not blinking in the rhythm, but the arrhythmia - three green, one red, a long pause, then two green again. No one seems to notice it. People go, cars drive, adapted to this pulsating chaos. Maybe that was always the case?
A man with a dog is waiting for me not in the same place. Now they stand right at the door of my office building. The dog's legs look even longer and the red man's shoes shine with an unnatural, inner light. When he smiled, his face is absolutely smooth, without any features like a wax mask. But I know that under that mask, the same too wide smile lies. I feel her in my skin.
I get closer. This time I can't ignore it. I have to pass through it. When there are only a few steps, the dog raises his head and opens the nose. They are not heard from barking. Not to dread.
Oh, a quiet, clear whispers of my own name.
I freeze. The cold runs the back, not the metaphorical, but the real, physical cold that turns through the coat. The world around is instantly silent. The only sound is my name, emanating from the animal's throat, without any echo, as if it were told straight into my ear.
A man with a smooth face mask barely tilts his head. As if giving respect.
I turn around and go back. I'm not running. Just go. Step by step. The echoing click has returned, but now it does not chase me, but it is coming from me as if I was hollow. I come home. I unlock the door. I lock. I stand up in the middle of the room filled with viscous, dusty lights.
I'm tired.
I'm just melting.
My hands. I look at them. They look distant, strangers, as if I were watching them too old, curling the TV screen. The fingertips are barely translucent. They shine through the contour of the window.
I smile. A smile feels strange. Too wide.