Baltimore by Jelena Lengold

than you, I’m afraid.”
    “Go ahead, tell me. I’m not into young girls anyway.”
    “No? What’s wrong with their tight asses and perky breasts?”
    “Listen, young girls usually have no idea what they want. It’s all an act. They’re immature.”
    “And you’re not like that? You’re not immature?”
    “I think I’m different from most of them.”
    “Oh, Luka, we all think that about ourselves. That we’re unique.”
    “Tell me how old you are, please.”
    “Forty-three.”
    “Wonderful! A real woman….”
    “You think?”
    “Oh, yeah. I watch them sometimes in the streets, or in the streetcars; they’re aware of their beauty, but they’re really good at hiding it. Know what I mean? They don’t need to look for their reflection in every store window like the girls.”
    “Are you sure you’re only twenty-five?”
    “I swear.”
    I take a quick glance at the corner of the screen. 5:24 p.m. He could come home at any minute. I should take the lasagna out of the freezer.
    “Luka, I’ve gotta get going soon….”
    “Oh… too bad. You visit this chat room often?”
    “Well, sometimes. When I find time.”
    “When will you find time again?”
    I think I hear the elevator. No. It’s going to another floor. It’s not him yet. But it will be soon.
    “Lucy? You still there?”
    “I’m here, Luka. Just thinking.”
    “Lucy, what about tonight?”
    “I really don’t know.”
    His cough syrup is sitting there, next to the keyboard. He’s been coughing for the last two weeks. Wheezing. I would get a scorching bristly ball in my throat every time I think about his cough. Or anything else that might happen to him.
    I get up to open the window. There’s too much smoke in here. Then I glance at the screen again. Luka isn’t writing anything. He’s waiting.
    “Luka?”
    “I’m here, Lucy.”
    “Luka, can you chat tomorrow night at 10:30?”
    “All right. I’ll be here.”
    “Okay. Bye. I’ve gotta run now.”
    “Wait! Just one more question! You married?”
    “Aha.”
    “Okay. Talk to you tomorrow. Be good.”
    “Get lost!”
    As I leave the chat room, a few ads for similar links pop up on the screen. Lick me – says a big-busted blonde with her finger in the right place. Eat my WET WET WET pussy – is written on the leg of an incredibly long-legged, dark-skinned beauty. My eyes linger a few moments longer on the area where those extremely long legs flow into the torso, take a deep breath and I turn off the computer.
    Lasagna. It’s time for me to finally heat up the lasagna. Do we have any ketchup? He won’t eat it without ketchup.

No matter where we start, the two of us always go back to something that hurts. Or used to hurt. Or I’m afraid might hurt.
    “This is getting too humiliating for me,” I tell her. “I’m constantly whining. This can’t be. I’m not like that.”
    “Like what?”
    “It can’t be that I’m someone who constantly complains.”
    “I find that you have an unusual expression on your face when you talk about the things that hurt you….”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You smile. You’re constantly smiling.”
    “Unless I’m crying.”
    “Yes,” she says laughing, “unless you’re crying. Why do you smile when you talk about serious matters?”
    I can’t believe she’s asking me this! Did I wander into the wrong office?
    “A smile doesn’t always have to mean a person is in a good mood. A smile is also a matter of politeness. You can also smile at a funeral when someone is expressing their condolences.”
    She’s nodding her head, but she doesn’t seem quite convinced. I go on to prove my point:
    “Who knows why women smile. There can be so many reasons. They might want to charm the person they’re talking to and engage them in a conversation. By smiling, we let the other person know we’re willingly participating in the conversation. All right, I agree that a smile can also be a defense mechanism. But you smile as well!”
    She