Endless Execution by Arkady Gershteyn

Wisps of smoke rose to the top lazily. Lounging in the comfortable love-seat, the tip of the man’s cigar emitted an ominous glow. His DNA was undergoing mutations and his lungs were becoming polluted. A time bomb was planting its seeds quietly but surely. And suddenly he put the cigar down as a beautiful woman caught his attention.
She was sitting on the other end of the street, conversing with her friend. The two women had studied at the same university, but at different majors – and had initially met on the first day of Crepe club meeting. Crepes – those delicious thin pancake-like circular discs that disappear in the organism like UFOs faster than anyone can identify them. As the two women met back then, one had slightly burned her left hand’s index finger when she was turning on the burner. She had said ‘ouch’, and sucked on her finger with a face that said that self-pity is the closest thing to love.

The man braced himself. Getting up and approaching a strange women seemed daunting. Add to this the fact that she was not alone, and he would have to impress both of them if he wanted to stand a chance of getting at least one ten digit number out of the encounter. He called the waitress over, and ordered a shot of vodka Kahlou, sweet and pleasant smelling for the girls, yet strong and fast-acting so as to distill his inhibitions. Drinking the shot, in one fell swoop – he flipped the glass and had a smile of complete and utter contentment. For this action exhibited his desperado resolve better than any other he could think of. He was sure that he would appear as a dashing, resolute fellow with a bit of mystery – should anyone care to observe. The only minor setback was that his life was a theater of one actor, for one actor.

As he hurled a ten dollar note on the table, he carefully put on his scarf, adjusting the ends to balance it, and donned a ushanka fur hat. Then he gently let himself into his coat, one hand then another, as if graciously thanking himself by slightly straightening out his shoulders and assuming a more open face- brighter and more receptive to other faces. 

Crossing the street in the snow, he jumped across the puddle at the curb, then walked at a moderate pace, and again hoped onto the sidewalk. In this small feat he had avoided the sedans, SUVs, minivans, buses, motorcycles, and bicycles that could have caroused through the street at the same time as him, but didn’t. Furthermore, he had avoided the prospect of his feet becoming wet, and cold, thus avoiding a cold or even pneumonia. And with a feeling of accomplishment, he walked in and sat at the bar, one stool removed from the two women.

One of the women darted him a brief look and flicked her hair. But the women of interest paid him none, and continued to gesticulate and relate something to her friend of apparent importance.  His eyes were adjusting to the dim light and his ears were starting to enjoy the soft notes of the Latin music, which was really meant for dancing.

Barman: “What will you be having, sir?”

“Vodka Kahlou” he replied. No sooner said than done.

Whereas the first shot was a call to action, the second made him introspective. Was it wise to approach the beautiful woman? She showed no signs of attention. Isn’t it virtually impossible to sell when the seller approaches first? Perhaps by just being there, he could plant the thought in her, either hypnotically or by telepathy that she found him extremely attractive. Send a signal that would cause her to, as if impulsively, notice him and find an excuse to start a conversation – for instance throw a napkin for him to retrieve. And as he reflected, he was sending this signal, but it was all happening in his head. The woman’s friend again threw him a glance, and this time touched her neck – and she indeed had a most splendid neck. Yet he become ever more engrossed in speculation – maybe there is some other way he thought. He didn’t quite know which, but it seemed reasonable to assume that there must. After all a direct approach seemed like a guaranteed fail at this point. The women of interest was still talking and as animated as before, clearly she had a lot to say of value and was herself a very valuable person, her attractive appearance must have been the tip of the iceberg that truly must contain a person who feels deeply and understands completely, in short, a sentient being of the first order.

The woman’s friend waved her hand and knocked over her handbag. This was his chance! He ducked from the bar stool. As if a football player catching the ball at the end of a close game, he felt he was going to score a touchdown. But the alcohol had made him one grade removed from professional football players, and he fell down, hitting his right elbow on the floor. He cursed the high stool outwardly and scolded himself internally for being clumsy. As he gathered his bearing and the handbag, the women of interest had stood up and headed to the restroom. He handed the handbag to the women’s friend and she uttered: “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself,” but then she smiled and added with a wink “but if you didn’t – she will. She’s a regular man-eater.”

“I’m bitter to the taste,” he sallied and ordered another drink as he moved closer. “What are you having?”