Blesok no. 114-115, July-August, 2017
Prose


The Heat

Vladimir Martinovski



The Heat


    It’s nobody’s fault I didn’t buy any bread this morning. The street is deserted as in an old western movie, where the duel takes place at high noon.
    It’s high noon now too. It’s hot as hell now too. But I have no opponent for a duel, ‘though my mission is not to be underestimated too.
    It’s nobody’s fault I didn’t buy any bread this morning. Then it was still possible to breathe.
    Now the street is horribly like a movie studio, overheated by the reflectors.
    
     The city is empty:
    not a single fly on
    the hot asphalt

  
    All shades are lowered. Only the sounds of airco-s can be heard. When you walk in the heat you feel like a bunch of eyes hidden behind the windows and the doors pierce straight through you.
    They wonder how you can stand it.
    To make my way to the store easier, I decided not to think how hot it is and keep my eyes down. I see: an ice-cream scoop, a hand fan cover, a piece of parchment paper…
    Whatever I see, reminds me of the heat:
  
     The ant waves
    a jasmine leaf… it cools
    its babies.

  
  
    (from Ехо од бранови, ИЛИ-ИЛИ, 2009)




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