“It’s true,” he thought, while staring at the creamy sky above. The rustle of the trees irritated him, especially when it merged with the sparkling of water nearby. When he loosened his gaze upon the sky, a moving object became visible in the distant, slowly increasing in weight, the noise of its movement growing more audible. The sky above slowly turned dark, cream being replaced by a thick and nasty fog, injected into the air as if into a person. At once, darkness prevailed.

Not many people took the night as joyful. To Dmitri Iosifovich it was truly the happiest time of day, a smile appearing on his face whenever the sun would set. After having spent all midday inside, the curtains half-closed, every window shut, he went outside when evening arrived. With his black woollen coat on, a silk shawl tucked neatly and precisely underneath it, dim leather shoes paired with it, he promenaded along the avenue, passing the closed shops, boutiques and restaurants. All living ended at night in this part of the city, and the few people still outside rushed towards home. Dmitri Iosifovich didn’t rush, not now, not ever, especially not when it was necessary. His steps were regular and calm, the sound of his wooden heels echoing throughout the avenue. A rare cat hissed at him, but he didn’t notice, his mind absent and his gaze fixed upon the horizon. He needn’t notice anything, because the route he always walked had become as known to him as his own body was.

Men stared at him, walking through the red light district without paying attention. Footmen and maids, finishing their last tasks for their families, barely noticed him, experiencing his existence on a daily basis. The evening nudes all thought about him when he passed by, but never stared or acknowledged him. Dmitri Iosifovich himself had only seen the horny men, footmen and maids, and the evening Adams, the first time he had walked his route, remembering where they were so not to pay attention the next time. He felt comfortable with this arrangement, not having to feel ashamed about passing them on a daily basis. In his mind he just didn’t realize they were there anymore. Memories were a lot easier to pass by, than reality.

After several hours, he opened the building front door, walked up to his apartment, passing the drunken fools of the night, and softly, as if not to disturb, entered his dominion. The peeking sun shone through the half-closed curtains, and just before too much could enter, he pulled the curtains all the way covering the light. Sitting in the darkness he sighed and hoped for another night to come.

FIN. AIS

“Дмитрий Иосифович” by Remy L. Overkempe