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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 70 | volume XIII | January-February, 2010



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SLOVOKULT.DE
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BALKANI
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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 70January-February, 2010
Prose

Boys Don't Cry

/5
p. 1
Mima Simić

A small stain of yellow light appears sporadically on the window of our train compartment, then is swiped away by the bare branches of the tall ash trees that grow in the swamp by the tracks. The train moves slowly, the moonstain on the thick grimy glass trembles and flickers like a match in the wind. Three beer cans on the plastic table in front of us – I will douse the journey in alcohol, set fire to the moment, then pick through the ashes for a story.
    My friends are as crazy as I am, but only because the beer is on me. And the tickets. We took the last train. We'll get there after midnight and we're not even sure where she lives or whether we'll be able to find her. It will be different in her hometown – so small there are no trams or buses, the place so walkable and safe as if made out of Lego blocks – yet we don't know it and we'll get lost among its footpaths, in those perfectly round Lego holes, pure-coloured, perfect fit.
    At the other end of the train tracks, in the city, she sleeps the days away and studies at night. Before she goes to sleep she walks the deserted streets barefooted, morning dew cooling the asphalt down to the temperature of her soles. The big city doesn't scare her in the fuzzy daybreak, it belongs to her; grey has become her favourite colour. She goes back to the quiet dorm and the orchestra of her shower sends sounds through the pipes, ten rooms down the hallway, flooding my dreams.
    Before she goes to sleep she puts eyedrops in her eyes, nosedrops in her nose, moisturiser on her skin which is so soft it is liquid, and rubs anti-bacterial cream into her face, cleaning herself into a temple, a maternity ward. She slips under the covers, her body loose in her pyjamas. Then she shuts off her roommate's alarm clock and disappears.
    Janja, her roommate, is my best friend who sometimes reads her diary. That's how I know about the barefooted strolls, her bonding with the city, and that's how I know her new favourite colour. About other rituals I hear from Janja, always late for morning classes. Sometimes I secretly smell them on her pillow, when she's not there and Janja’s in the bathroom. Because of her sleeping patterns and






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