tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13588545.post-1119205099761281382005-06-19T19:36:00.000+02:002005-07-28T15:35:05.143+02:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">H</span>e expelled tar and mucus of the nights before and revealed Vera in his bed. He enjoyed moments being exposed to her smooth nudity. She was so young.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6115/1200/1600/4-Vera.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6115/1200/320/4-Vera.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">U</span>ncovering unbearable lightness of being under intolerably serious life.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">H</span>is friends from adolescence finally payed a visit to his mind. Eventually, he grabbed an old directory and took out a phone number of his best ally. Friend's name was Iorp. He has never seized an idea of giving that kind of name to somebody. Iorp originated from the old, petty bourgeois family. Species from the brink of extinction.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">S</span>exy mezzo-soprano answered the phone.<br /><br />- Rastoder speaking. I've just...<br /><br />- I know. I'm his wife. I know you, Istvan.<br /><br />- I'm... I just...<br /><br />- You're back. At my place, Rastoder, eleven o'clock. - she ended conversation.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">H</span>er voice emitted thousands of eroticons through the wire. Rastoder was well shaken by the single brief call.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">V</span>era was still sleeping. He left her blessed, dressed himself up and literally bounced on the streets of <span style="font-style: italic;">Maria Theresiopolis</span>. He was hovering across the hangovering town. Some cats, dogs and people were busy seeking for a lunch from the thrash bins. It was Sunday.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I've been called by the Iorp's lady. But, where's Iorp? What if she wants to cheat on him? Should I make another call? What if she answers again?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">S</span>cruples were tickling him to the itching suspense.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">H</span>e decided to have an espresso. It took a lot of effort to find an open caffe. It was Sunday. Personnel was slow and bored.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">F</span>inally, time ticked off eleven. For long fifteen minutes, he was waiting in front of the house. Precisely, behind the thirty meters tree afar. He was looking at Iorp's house remembering wild teenage parties: <span style="font-style: italic;">"When Meeckey defecated himself and was thrown into bathtub"</span>. Iorp's parents were dead, he knew. They corresponded by mail, for some time. Fact that he was married, Rastoder didn't know.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">H</span>e rang and she opened. <span style="font-style: italic;">Monika</span>! Ever since he was fond of her. In some crazy, passionate, erotic way. And he knew that she liked him as well. He was sure.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6115/1200/1600/4-Monika.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6115/1200/320/4-Monika.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />- He's gone! - she cried.<br /><br />- He left this envelope, for you. I've read it, of course. Go, now! Please! - she asked.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">D</span>oors were closed. Rastoder was left standing with envelope in his hands while the whole world began to twist around.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!-- google_ad_client = "pub-8611827934816256"; google_ad_width = 468; google_ad_height = 60; google_ad_format = "468x60_as"; google_ad_type = "text_image"; google_ad_channel ="2403465966"; //--></script> <script type="text/javascript" src="http://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/show_ads.js"> </script><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/13588545-111920509976128138?l=rastoder.blogspot.com'/></div>Istvan Rastoderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02182192191600288719noreply@blogger.com0