Olga showed me a photograph. The colours were faded and it looked older than it was. Too much time in the sun, maybe, or cheap Soviet paper. It showed a laughing girl, perhaps six years old, in fancy dress with a red top hat. So she had known how to laugh, once. She still could smile, but sadly.
I met her at a pick-up party, not as shameless as its adverts, but its purpose still clear. I only went the once, and I picked up Olga, so you could say it was effective. I don't know what she was doing there, and I don't think she did, either. She was from Novosibirsk and illegal. She worked illegally and lived illegally in a flat that belonged to her employer. He was too friendly. She spoke catastrophic German. I kissed her and we made a date for the next evening.
She sent me to a bar to wait while she got ready. An hour later she joined me, perfectly dressed, perfectly made up. "I am a cow," she said, "a real cow." After some drinks she leant against me, after some more we left. The bill was huge.
She told me to be quiet, because I shouldn't be there. She showed me her photograph. She told me Novosibirsk was a beautiful city. She told me I could undress myself a little. I undressed us both. She was small and perfect. It was the wrong time and the wrong place. She gave herself briefly to the wrong man.
She had to sleep and I had to go. We had dinner together some days later, but she hardly spoke or looked at me. That was the last time I saw her. I expect the photo is even more faded by now.
LateQuest 2007 | BrevityQuest07