The park is very quiet in the early morning, at this time the murmur of the birds is largely deafening cry of the children, but today it is humid from last night’s rain, drops are dripping down the trees, powering mosses and peace reigns throughout the picture. Mrs. Green sits on one of the wooden benches. Each leaning one nail falls on the grass, which in this place dries. Immediately rust catches it, a pale circle is made around nail, and the tips on the edges let out silent cries. On her long fingers that end in dark, almost brown nails, she lowers silver coins. They’re big. She takes them with two fingers, first aiming the nail in the middle, then gently running the finger through the metal until it reaches the very root and remains trapped there like a ring.
Her face is framed by fiery strands. Sporadically, ash leaves emerge from the hair, equalized to the colors of autumn. One eye runs down her cheek like Dali’s clock, displaying the correct time. With the other eye, she looks out at the forest over the rifle grain.
Last shirts she had ironed for him were carefully folded into a chair. He made her so angry that the moment he puts on a freshly washed piece of clothing, the smell of it will make him impotent for several long months. Jealousy has eroded her faithfulness, and unbelief will curb his power. He was lucky. On one occasion, Mrs. Green tied a bitch who bite her heart to tree in desert and let cats eat it tongue.
Lower still coins on fingers. Like a magician, she rolls some air between her fingers to create a coin and drops it on the next finger. This game doesn’t tired her. She clears the ash of a cigarette from her knees, which is swinging in the air beside in the morning haze. Only she knows what fills the void for which she buys a new box of cigarettes every morning. Every second smokes she put a cigar on a long nail in the color of the earth and delivers to her lips, two brown leeches squeeze filter, inhale long, long smoke, then spit into the grass, and a small frog pops out of each spit and rolls towards the forest. She turned her head north, carefully scrutinizing the first snowfall on the slopes through her nostrils and sniffing the trail of a young knuckle. Then she returned the cigarette to the haze beside her and took a deep breath. She’s patient.
“Remember the swing we had in the countryside?” She asks for herself. The mist is silent, and the ash that falls to her knee she wipes with palm.
She gets up suddenly. He is putting on his shirt. She can smell his beautifully shaped body and his still asleep scents, this early in the morning.
It will be enough for today. A nearly burned track remains on the bench. At the edge of the dress, which, from long lying in the wet grass, was moist, popped a series of inedible mushrooms. She swiftly flicked her arm toward the sky and the coins flew high, spread small hard wings and headed for the city.
It’s going to rain a lot today, she lock it over the rifle grain and disappear.
Author: Novaković Olja