pink_glove

Why are there three locks on the bathroom door, I wonder, wetting the tips of my fingers so that anyone listening will think I washed my hands.

N is sitting, working.

“Cigarette?” I ask.

He nods. We head outside. It is raining. I look up.

“What the hell is this. It has hailed twice, the sun has come out three times, it’s rained four times and now it is sunny, and raining.”

N shrugs. “It’s St. Petersburg.”

“It’s bullshit,” I grumble, lighting my cigarette. N is staring at a glove sitting on the table, wet. It is pink, a child’s glove.

“That’s been here for a week,” he muses. I look at the glove, it is dirty.

“Why do they have three locks on their bathroom door?” I ask. N looks at the glove, then at me.

“Why can’t we solve my mystery before yours?” He asks.

I look at the glove.

“Maybe she was kidnapped,” I say. N frowns.

“That’s dark.”

“Yeah, so about the bathroom door. I–”

“What if some kid left it as a cry for help?”

I look at the glove. It stops raining. N goes over and pokes it.

“Is it pointing anywhere in particular?” I ask, walking up beside him.

He shakes his head.

“Okay, so it’s just a glove. Now, the door.”

He looks at me and rolls his eyes. “Russians don’t knock, they just open.”

I shudder. “I know that all too well. But I haven’t experienced a habit of kicking in doors.”

N snubs out his cigarette.

“Do you ever think we might ask the wrong questions about life?”

I think about it. I look at the glove.

“No.”

I flick my cigarette on the ground. N rolls his eyes. We go inside. Back to work. A bit later the bartender brings us some chips. N asks her a few things in Russian. They chat. She nods and leaves. I pull out my headphones. He is frowning.

“What?”

“Hm, well, you had me thinking. I asked about the bathroom door.”

I move to the edge of my seat.

“And?”

“I guess some kid was in there and some guy came and broke the door down. Took her out and dragged her from the bar.”

“No shit? Dude, we live in a story, or play, I just know it.”

N gives me a long look. He laughs.

“No. I just ordered another beer,” he says, not bothering to suppress a grin.

I glare at him. “You’re a bad man.”

He shrugs and goes back to work.

A Writer and an artist living in Russia

10 Comment on “Three Locks and a Dirty Pink Glove

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