Herstories: An Anthology of New Ukrainian Women Prose Writers by Michael M. Naydan

Author:Michael M. Naydan [Michael M. Naydan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-909156-03-6
Publisher: Glagoslav Publications

from THE LOST BUTTON

by Iren Rozdobudko

Translated by Michael M. Naydan and Olha Tytarenko

The last day of August 2005

… I already don’t remember when I got home, since I was slightly tipsy. And probably notjust slightly… Since yesterday I felt like someone had sewn a firecracker under my shoulder blade and that I’d die from even looking at a glass ofvodka or cognac. I had no way ofquelling my anxiety. I had to somehow drag things out to the end of the workday. On the other hand, I wanted it to last forever. I was afraid to go home. I was afraid to sit at the computer. That’s why after two not very onerous lectures in the Institute of Cinematography I went back to my office. I didn’t have anything to do there, I could have even worked at home, making up endless plots for advertising videos, but I already noticed I was afraid of going home. So I just sat for some time in my office, putting my feet on the desk, and from time to time obliging our office manager Tetyana Mykolaivna to bring me the strongest cup of coffee she could make. I looked out through the window. My stare was so sharp and focused that I saw the tiniest interlacing andfurrows on the bark of an old tree that was growing on the other side of the street. I didn’t tear my gaze away from those furrows, stuffed with gray cobwebs, and they reminded me of the deep furrows of an old man’s face.

Summer was coming to a close. The year was racing to an end. I don’t know about other people, but the year ends with the last day of August for me. Maybe because everything in my life seemed to begin in the fall…

I made every effort to turn off my brain, not to get lost in thought. But mentally I had already been in my apartment a hundred times and made several of my customary movements: I opened the door, took off my sport coat, sat down at the computer, settled myself into a deep black armchair, and clicked the mouse.

Why in truth am I so afraid of doing all this? What is stopping me right now from taking my feet off the table, snatching up my briefcase, jumping into the street, sitting behind the wheel and in about ten minutes really pushing open the door of my own apartment? What kind of weights have been strapped to my feet? In time I understood that these “weights” were the fear of not finding anything on the monitor screen. NOTHING at all.

But with not the least fear I thought about the fact that in the corner of the screen a little yellow email icon folder would light up.

And I didn’t know what was better: that nothing or the icon folder…

Close to eight o’clock Tetyana Mykolaivna began to cough pathetically at my door. And then, opening it slightly, asked:

“More coffee?”

I knew it was time to go.

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