Do I smell the apple pie in my grandmother’s house being baked?
And is it warm sand slipping through my fingers?
And is it me singing a maudlin song at Sunday mass?
I can feel each of the cuckoo’s sounds
Greenhorn at the ranch
I am sitting behind the bar at ranch, and Andrei Balabanow says he knows how my father was, spiritual and candid. An alert runs through my keen mind, but then my trusting heart does not let it any deeper, which means from now on Andrei Balabanow can freely enter inglorious corners of my soul. The devil leads his hands to pour us more whisky on the rocks and the same devil leads us to swiftly empty our glasses.
Few hours later it turned out I should have run away from the ranch. Directly into the safety of the moonlit night.
I thought it was not worth it, seeing that the next village was 3 miles away and the road had no lights (the path through the thorny bushes, which I eventually did run 2 weeks later, out of breath). Instead I took my shoes off while Andrei was sleeping on the coach.
That night I couldn’t resist any more the bed which wasn’t mine. And the man who wasn’t mine.
Only my subconscious mind could register that Andrei was clearly enjoying the process of undressing me and using my torpid body to fulfill his since childhood fucked up fantasies.