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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 44 | volume VIII | September-October, 2005



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 44September-October, 2005
Prose

Stella Maris

/6
p. 1
Zoran Zafirovski

    I met Stella at a concert in the park when I and my high school band played in Skopje for the first and last time.
    I sat next to a willow and ate a cold sandwich as if it was the last thing in my life. Adrenalin still hit me straight in the head. Some little punks from Skopje played on the stage. They were OK (except for the addresses of the singer to the audience such as Now we’ll fuck you so that there’re more of you). It was dark around me. I saw her some ten meters away. She approached me with self-confident steps of a model.
    “Hi, I’m Stella. Can I sit down?” she asked, running her hand through her hair.
    “Sure.” I said with my mouth full. “I’m Fidel.”
    “What a strange name. Is it a nickname or…”
    “Real name.” I interrupted her. I was used to this question. I don’t know why I lied to her about such a benign issue.
    She was a bit taller than me, with a very pale face and high forehead that was covered with straight black fringes. She wore a gray T-shirt with the smiling face of Robert Smith on, tight blue jeans that looked great on her, and red snickers just like mine, only a bit newer.
    “You were great.”
    “We could’ve been better.” I said and regretted. She’d think I’m showing off.
    “Here’s your band.”
    Tigar and Vasko passed by. The first one waved with his sticks and the other made a funny face. I knew what they thought and I felt embarrassed.
    “And you, where are your girlfriends?”
    “I’m alone. Actually, I came with a cousin, but I lost her.”
    She asked for a tape. I gave her one.
    “Wanna beer?”
    “Sure.”
    I took out two cans from by backpack. They were warm. We kept quiet for a while. I wandered what she thought. I liked her. A lot. I watched her sip, holding her cigarette, put her hair in her mouth. Then we started talking again. She told me that she lived at the Olympic Pool, went to high school, that she wanted to become a sculptor and that her father died four years ago. I felt I was supposed to say something, but I didn’t know what. I started kissing her slowly on her neck, white as a Prilep marble.
    “You have a good perfume, I love you, je t’aime.” I hummed in her hair, and she started to laugh loudly






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