Sofia Aize

С. ПерелыгинаМеня зовут Соня. Мне 24 года. Я юрист. В свободное время преподаю бальные и современные танцы детям и взрослым. С детства любила что-то сочинять, но в настоящее время – это, всего лишь, моё хобби. В этом, наверное, и есть его прелесть. На мой взгляд, ценность этого мира - в возможности изучать его разнообразие, в возможности давать всему своё определение.

My name is Sofia. I’m 24. I’m a lawyer. I teach ballroom and contemporary dancing in my spare time. I love literature. I write from time to time, but that’s just a hobby. And maybe that’s why it’s so entertaining. I think, the beauty of this world is in the ability to discover its diversity and a desire to give that all your own definition.


Chiara & the sea.

(extract)

***

            Chiara’s chances of seeing the sea next summer were fair, and she was well aware of that strange fact of her life. Facts… they have a funny way of taking your life by a storm. First, they travel the curbs. Soon they meet you at the crossroads stealing the carefully collected options and probable choices forever. Instead, they offer pain and regret.

            Pain. Regret.

            Stop. Go.

            Red. Green.

            Traffic lights.

            But life is yellow. Life is a warning. In general.

            They bothered to call her on a Thursday morning of all days. Thursday mornings... She liked them. They had a non-deceitful aura of a freedom filled weekend. No bosses. No deadlines. No alarm clocks. Just a coffee cup and a pastry.

            Coffee cups.

            No mugs.

            Mugs were distasteful. Cups had the right amount of morning elegance. Fifty two photos of them loaded on her Instagram account. It was her innocent cult. It gave her a feeling that hours belonged to herself for a while. Her distant friends never regrammed that, though. They liked TV faces or else.

            Still Thursdays were real. They promised a lot. And on top of everything they promised freedom to do whatever she liked. She rarely got excited of having to do things asked to be done. Especially, by her boss. She would find them useless on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, but not on Thursdays. Thursdays were special and safe, so she could tolerate a duty or two.

            But that call was an obviously intrusion.

            - Miss, they want you for a re-check at the oncology center. They're not sure about the results. So, umm, anyway you need to go there.

            'How can one not be sure about the result if there is already one?', she mused hitting the 'off' button on her phone.

            It was a Thursday morning and she had already made plans for a burger joint escape on a Friday night. Alone. That was a way of a cult, too. An excuse to be left against the thoughts in her head and a company of meaningless strangers. She knew well the familiar taste of a grilled chicken over a roasted bread bun eaten in the dusk of a parking lot. It was already teasing the tip of her tongue. She smiled. Thursdays were the Cake Boss show days. She realized she wanted a piece of cake now. It was not lunch time, yet.

            She remembered the acute pain which stopped her at the door last week. She dreaded going to work that day. Waiting in a line at the doctor's office was not an agreeable option, either. They gave her pills. Asked her to follow a diet. That was it. Someone at work indifferently noted that her case was not special. Everybody had a sickness of his own. Everybody minds his own business.

            She took pills. She followed the restrictions. She hated her work even more. But that had already been in her habit. Especially, in the absence of a wine glass at a bar. Alone. So, that was OK.

            She was feeling OK. As OK as a person can be with a hundred rejections from HR departments of some sublime companies. She got used to the fact that they were not excited to have her there. Even though she was eager for some corporate spirit.

            Oh, yes, they did take some biopsy last time. It was a routine. That’s what they said. There is too much information in the twenty first century, so, we don't bother to check the meaning of one-time words, right? She used to think people were insane to pay regular visits to the doctors' offices. How much free time do you really have to have for that? Don't they work? Don't they watch movies? Don't they want to stay asleep extra hours? People were weird. Especially, the ones starring in reality shows.

            She thought she'd go for a re-check after lunch provided she's lucky enough to get permission from her boss. She wondered if should she really explain where she was headed to or just write in blue pen that they wanted her at the hospital. She hoped that'd pass. Some employers are true army fans. She never liked war movies. She wore no uniform, either. Yet, they considered that to be the best method of corporate discipline. She received a paycheck lower, than average.

            She obviously could not leave at the moment. There was an urgent load to do. It had to be done yesterday. By her boss. He’s never bothered to show up earlier, than lunch. She needed a signature. His signature. To pass the deadlines. To please the bigger bosses. To count on a paycheck. To buy something to look good in a mirror. It was too early. Just past late summer breakfast time. He was not here yet.

            Where did they say she needs to be again? At the oncologist? A knock. She never expected one. But that was a huge knock in her chest from within her body. She strained. She held her breath for a minute or two or as much as she did not remember. She tried to analyze what was going on.

            In her head.

            In her body.

            Around.

            She got up and shut the door. Turned the key. Too many steps in the halls cluttering. She came to the window. It was a sunny day. There was a man in the street leaning on a street lamp pole. He was huge. And his stomach was moving quite noticeably. Was he feeling all right? Was he having a heart attack? Was he about to fade? He stayed by the lamp for a while and then slowly continued his walk. ‘Must be hard for him and all his weight’, she murmured aloud. Sometimes lips move without a meaning. Somebody knocked on her door and tried the handle. She stopped breathing. She didn’t want to give herself away. That was stupid. Who's going to hear someone’s breath? They left. Probably irritated. There were some deadlines she remembered. Maybe that was one of the deadlines eager to deliver its morning office scream at her.

            Where did they say she had to be again? She was fighting tears. They taught her not to cry. There was always somebody in the house sobbing. She never got a chance. Or never decided to take one. They expected her to be supportive all the time. She was. Every time. Every time she was about to ask for a support payback something else would happen. Always wrong timing.

            Could they have called a bit later? On a Monday? Or two hours later. There was too much work to do. A load. It had to be done yesterday. By her boss. There were deadlines. She had a habit of pulling back the tears. She knew how to suck it all in. She had a compact powder in her bag. She saved on Dior. She'd look OK. No matter.

            She's been there before. At the hospital. Oncology is always an uncomfortable word. She realized things somebody might not be sure about there.

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