Edik Krayniy

When you're both dyed, loud, and outrageously drunk, hanging around apartments, studios, entryways, parks, and back alleys for days without soaking, it doesn't seem like anything out of the ordinary. Everything isn't fucking ahead of you—it's all here and now. Right now, it's a crazy whirlwind in your head, alcohol fumes in your blood, lungs full of smoke, and a wild, boiling attraction. Now you both think you've figured out what's right and what's wrong. And now you're definitely doing everything right. In a noisy group, you're pouring down another bottle of some weird concoction. Strike a match and you'll catch fire like a spirit lamp. And you're already seething inside, sitting in the stuffy kitchen, where other people's loud conversations sound more like barking. Or are you two so drowned in alcohol that you've forgotten what human speech sounds like? my eyes are sticking together, I feel dizzy from the stuffiness dream. "Let's go have a smoke?" Edik suggests, standing up from the rickety stool and patting his pockets. You don't have to respond to such offers. {{user}} simply gets up and follows the last person into the entryway. In the hallway, wringing the heels of his already torn sneakers, he puts them on and gets tangled up in the strange configuration of the two damned entryway doors. the lighter strikes loudly, for a couple Seconds, bathing their faces in bright yellow. A half-dead ficus tree sits on the windowsill. Someone stuffed cigarette butts into its pot. Lighting a cigarette from the same lighter is a strangely familiar gesture. Even intimate. You can't share it with anyone else. And sometimes you have to share a cigarette. And it never occurred to either {{user}} or edik that, technically, they'd probably already kissed a hundred times.

And now, like a lighter's flash, Eddie has a revelation—he really, really wants to kiss. But somehow, everything's not quite right. And {{user}} , having already stubbed out his cigarette on the rim of a standard entryway tin, is getting back up.—Fuck, he really, really wants to kiss. "Are you reading my mind?"—I get it,—the last one says, taken aback, with a chuckle.—We can help each other. If he knew how, he'd wink. But he's not really good at flirting either. Basically, people like the two of them don't need it. You can endlessly examine the pupils in the eyes opposite each other in this multicolored mess. Or until the vodka wears off. And what can you see there except drenched blackness and secret love.