Walking faster or looking back for the third time would be an invitation for attack. His steps crumb the frozen ground. I wrap my hopes around the keys, their silver blades between my fingers. Should I speed up or slow down? Can I look back?
A man in a woollen hat. A man in a woollen hat. A man in a woollen hat cannot be that bad. A man in a woollen hat. A man in a woollen hat.
How heavy is your keychain? Too much attached? Two keys to my office— I don’t even want to work there. Four keys to my grandma’s flat— I live there now. Two keys to my parents’ house— I keep my stuff there. One key to our, now my own, car— should I pay him back? Three keys to our house. No longer my home. He lives there now. Two keys that I don’t really know. One is big and sharp. Like a knife.
“Miss, do you have cigarettes?” he asks me when I reach the front door to the block.
A key. A knife. A key. A knife.
Which is the one to use now?
“No,” I say and I hear myself adding for no reason, “I’m sorry” I’m too polite to strangers. Or I was.
I see myself in slow motion trying to open the door. I found the right key but it doesn’t work. The key doesn’t work.
A key. A knife. A key.
I see him in slow motion running at me.
I don’t have cigarettes. I swear.
I push him away using all my force. “Fuck off!” I yell. He is shocked. I press all the doorbells at the same time. Only old people live here. Grandparents. Neighbours. There are asleep now. They’re dreaming of better times.
He is on me. So close that I can only see half of his face. I can smell his breath. Alcohol. A lot. Too much.
A man in a woollen hat. A man in a woollen hat. A man in a woollen hat.
His left hand in his pocket. His right hand squeezing my arm. “I will cut your face if you scream,” he whispers. I freeze inside.
> BACK TO WRITING
Poem
Leaking
A stream is leaking. Urine is leaking. Time is leaking. Saliva is leaking. I have low back pain. Did I hurt myself while bending down or carrying chairs? I do carry chairs here. Up and down. The stairs. The stage. The floor
In 1982, in the middle of martial law, when tanks drove up and down our streets, and people died in our prisons, the poet Agnieszka Osiecka came up with a new slogan. Coca-Cola to jest to! She wrote and she won. Communism collapsed..