RE: Клоп – Vlad Mayakovsky

Resting with one hand steadying his hoe, Dickche grasps about in a pocket while squinting out at the glaring orange horizon. He fishes out a rag of some sort and smothers himself vigorously for a while before stashing it away again and sticking out his great big belly with his pocket hand now in the small of his back.

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And then there’s a short walk up a simple hill to his home. Leaning over and peeling off his boots, he rests a hand on the door, scrutinizing the knob with a worried look. Something like: maybe it will just topple right in!

He shakes the boots off and shuffles over the threshold on the balls of his feet, following their progress attentively.

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But then everything evens out and speeds up. Dickche finds his way to the kitchen, and just as his eyes start to adjust. Yikes! Very bright florescent lights! Lynnie stands in all this glare hovering over the most distant stretch of sturdy wood countertop. He pauses in the doorway to see her for a moment as she goes about writing some chapter or chopping something, lost in her own thoughts.
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So he walks into his bedroom, and she goes on weeping, inexplicably, as she almost always did lately.

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He rolls into bed, flinging the covers up over him like a sedated matador, and snuggles in, blanket cradling his chins, and shows a fleeting satisfied smile. Then his head falls to the side, his hand drifts over his heart, and he stares straight ahead, as though this could help him wait somehow.

Nonetheless, he isn’t unpracticed; he brought the bedbugs here in all awareness. Certainly, a man like him, such problems, if that, can be handily dismissed. If he closes his eyes, and if he cannot feel them until they’re all split to digest there are such strange implications!

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A single window permits the first morning sun. And so Dickche wakes up with a hand over blinking eyes; the early light reflected vigorously with mirrors is very bright.

He stands soon after to put on a robe and fish around under the bed for his good warm pair of slippers, which he drops onto his fat feet one by one.

Carried with brisk momentum, he neatly makes his bed, unbolts his door, and wanders on down to the kitchen, the first to actually see the mess and one of the few to really cry.