beginning of a short story V

A Healthy Way to Deal With Your Nightmares

I.

On a wet, dusty night in early Spring, a young man walked down Tverskaya with a giant plastic flower in one hand and a small, tightly wrapped bundle in the other. The street was unusually empty for a Saturday night, and the young man walked hurriedly past the dank, cigarette-filled puddles, the hum of neon light from bars and sushi restaurants, and the occasional strolling police officer. He looked up and then down, hardly anyone on this side of the street, which was in stark contrast to the noise and din of the traffic.

Probably because of the dampness. No one wants to go for a walk.

He continued on. As he turned down one of the nameless alleys that intersect the street every 30 or so yards, he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of a jazz cafe, and only then did he realize how nervous he looked. It was something in his eyes, some almost-frantic inability to land solidly on what he was trying to look at that gave it away. He stopped up short and stared at the window, but the image had already passed and he could only see the reflection of two street lights and the dark windows of an upscale bakery. He briefly contemplated taking a step back to get another look, but he realized that was ridiculous, and set off again.

The image he had seen in the glass was unsettling, and suddenly reminded him of where he walking to. Not only that, it reminded him why. He took another turn through the arch of a long concrete apartment block with a chipped facade, and passed a massive, half-lit church with multi-colored, shabbily-restored onion domes. As he stepped out onto Nikitskaya, ducking between two kiosks displaying row after row of beer, hooch, energy drinks, soft drinks, alcopops, he suddenly realized how close he was to the cafe. this thought injected a coarse icy water through his veins and almost stopped him short again by three teens in leather jackets smoking and drinking canned gin and tonic. It was very close now, the cafe, and he realized how easy it would be to keep walking all the way up to the boulevard and take a three-dollar cab home.

The flower I can throw down the garbage chute, the book I can burn.