The End

Kitty. The tip of the tongue pushes into the incisors twice, giving birth to the rhythm of her name. Like one of her bells jingling.

Kitty. A drop of Metaxa on the lips. Two steps up the stairs to heaven.

Ki-i-itti... It's like you're beckoning a wayward cat. Will he give a stroke or scratch his hands?

Kitty. A syllable for each of her men. Two steps up the stairs to hell.

Whale. One. The only one.

Hank is drunk. Not too much, only to a pleasant dizziness, when the fingertips and the skin on the cheekbones become slightly numb, and the surrounding sounds become muffled. Yes, he drinks alone, so what? It cannot be called loneliness. She is here, with him, inside him, like the strongest alcohol, only this hop will not disappear with the dawn.

Hank pushes the empty glass away with two fingers and reaches for the phone again. He doesn't let go of it anyway. The glass smells of roses. It smells of their first night, in which there was no one but the two of them, an empty park and a huge st