nine

He cuts the lettuce. Drives a knife along the green elastic stems. No thoughts in my head, no sensations inside. Or does it just seem so? He's so drunk that he can't feel his fingertips. They were numb. What the hell is he cutting? Forgot. Probably it should be.

Baubles Whale. Dangling on the wrist. One, two, three... Nine. He may not count. Knows exactly. He remembers how she tied - fastened each of them. He remembers every meeting from the first to the last second. There was another one, the tenth ... Instead of a bauble, he received something else. Instead of a commemorative notch - a fat dot. All. End. Finish. Apocalypse.

He looks at them and realizes that he intensely hates these harmless trinkets. It's like notes from heaven, pages from the diary of happiness, which are pinned to your chest with hefty nails before they kick you in the ass. So that when you fry in a damn frying pan, you, bitch, do not forget for a second how happy you once were.

That's right... gotta get rid of t