Shampoo

  Sergey Anatolyevich was shampooing his hair.
  The imported shampoo lathered generously, releasing the scent of cloves - the kind that sells three for a ruble from fly-by-night toughs in muskrat hats.

  They know how to make things, the bastards, Sergey Anatolyevich thought, pushing his tanned, muscular shoulder under the shower — then let out a thin squeal and jumped back, nearly falling out of the half-sized ark of personal hygiene.

  Another second and I’d scald myself. Lovely I’d look. And which son of a bitch invented this “Spanish boot” of hotel service - the sit-down bathtub? An inquisitor with a compass. Lock him in here for a couple of hours — he’d never straighten up again till his grave.
  Sergey Anatolyevich cursed, groping blindly along the tiled wall. And Lenka is waiting.

  Lenka — Elena Nikolaevna — was waiting in bed. Warming it. Also on a business trip. Slim, just his type. Beautiful hands.

  All right. Add some cold. A little more. Perfect.

  The shampoo ran into his eyes.

  Burns like hell — nothing local about that either. That’s all my wife: imported, foreign, just needs a label.
  All right, rinsed. I can open my eyes.

  Dark.

  He rubbed his eyes.

  Even darker. Pitch black.

  “Lenka, stop fooling around. Turn on the light.”

  “What light?” a girlish voice drifted into the hotel bathroom.

  “Lenka, I’m not a boy anymore.”

  Bare feet slapped against the linoleum.

  “And why would I need a boy?”

  Long fingernails scratched at the door.

  “Light! Turn on the light!”
  Sergey Anatolyevich coughed — and slipped, falling out of the bathtub.

  Blind. Blind. Damn shampoo. Imported. This is it. Maybe they’ll save me. Cure me. And if not — then what? I’m still young. In great shape. Cars. Girls. Is it really over? Who’ll need me like this? No friends — just acquaintances. My wife will leave me. She’s been threatening to. Now she definitely will.

  The floor was slick with soap. A draft crept in from somewhere.

  Blind. Completely blind. Pension. Benefits. I’ll look into it. The apartment stays mine — I am blind, after all. And I’ll take the library too. Why would I need a library now? Still, I’ll take it.

  “What’s wrong with you? I didn’t turn anything off! Why aren’t you answering?”

  Sitting on the cold floor, Sergey Anatolyevich broke out in goosebumps and began to shake.

  Now I’ll catch cold. Get sick. Die. And before dying, I’ll see again — for a minute. For an hour.

  A spasm clenched his throat and chest.

  Air! Live!

  Scratching and slipping, he threw himself against the door. On the other side, Lenka was pounding and crying, pressing against it with her belly and chest.

  Live! Air!

  He shoved the sobbing Lenka into the wall closet and burst out of the bathroom. In the hallway twilight, he saw himself in the mirror — saw himself with astonishing clarity — covered in mucus and soap.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Lenka clutched his bare shoulders.

  “Hr,” he muttered, dragging her into the room and reaching for the switch.

  Click.
  Again.

  “They cut it off — good Lord. Someone could get a heart attack from that. Or turn gray.”
  He leaned toward the mirror. “Though gray at the temples would suit me.”

  A thick terry towel in gentle female hands drove warm blood through his body.

  Not too late yet, he thought, glancing at his Japanese watch on the table. We can still make it to the restaurant.

  And he embraced the woman.