Shallow Breathing

by Robert Vrbnjak

Shallow breathing

  By

  Robert A. Vrbnjak

  * * * * *

  Shallow breathing

  Copyright © 2013 by Robert A. Vrbnjak

  On Sunday, Fausto gets up early and makes coffee. He used to bring it to Sofia in bed - she takes hers with sugar and a little milk - but he no longer bothers. While she’s still asleep, he prefers to sit here, listen to radio and look through the window. Deserted street, discarded glasses, broken bottles, shards of a night life; but only an hour or two later and it will yet again come alive with shapes and scents of the usual bustle of traffic and passers by; it will look the same as it does on any other weekday.

  He prefers it like this, though. Crowds make Fausto nervous.

  Or, to be more precise still, everything makes Fausto nervous.

  This presenter, for instance. He’d love to throw the radio out of the window the moment the guy goes, “News!” and then proceeds to reel them off, all those boring, predictable Sunday news. The day has hardly even started yet, and the political parties are already at war with each other, the protestors are already up in arms and protesting, politicians are already visiting the godforsaken parts of the country where they busy themselves holding pre-election speeches, cutting the ribbon and opening the factories already doomed to bankruptcy. Who cares what some Tom Dick or Harry from the sticks had to say on this or that? And even if they did say it, it was all lies, identical to all the countless lies that came before, designed to give you a high blood pressure and a stomach ulcer. Politics is followed by sports. Seems like nothing much happens in this country besides politics and sports. The most worthy individuals, besides politicians, are sportsmen. By jumping that one centimeter higher and running that one hundredth of a second faster, they passionately promote our country. Sport and politics are becoming so entwined that one day they may decide to replace the coat of arms on our national flag with a picture of a ball. Or a pair of skies!

  “Wet front approaches from the West. It is going to rain,” the speaker tries its best to convince.

  Next comes the hits chart plus the hotlist, the killer combination of stupid facts and tunes that renders Fausto a nervous wreck. Sentimental trash devoid of melody or rhythm! He’d rather be listening to something more calming. He’d rather be listening to silence.

  “The news fresh in,” pipes up the presenter, suddenly sounding a little more animated, “Recently captured Post Office robber claimed he would’ve outran the Police were it not for the fact that he suffered from a rare condition he called shallow breathing. This means that he soon ran out of air, and got caught all too easily. So whilst our listeners check out on their own breathing, we continue with our chart. Hit number five...”

  Why is this even interesting? The guy has robbed the Post Office! If he wasn’t suffering from the so called “shallow breathing,” he could’ve escaped unpunished. “Shallow breathing ?” How can you suffer from shallow breathing? You either breathe or you don't! How can this presenter be so stupid? Who gave him the job? There are so many more highly qualified people at the Job Centre, yet he’s allowed to spill this rubbish into the ether!

  He'd love to throw the radio away, but can't, as it was a gift from his mother in law, so instead he just pulls out the plug.

  “See how you manage to waffle on now!”

  Fausto glances through the window and lights up. He reaches out for the newspaper, but remembers it'll only annoy him even more. Best he sticks with the crosswords magazine. Crossword puzzles are good for calming the nerves. Where's the pencil? Where is it, when he asked hundred times for them not to be moved, but Sofia still does it. She moves them, because he nibbles on them, she always says, “You chew up all the pencils!”

  “Norway. N. Female name, five letters. Twin brother of Romulus? Potato dish, three letters. Not very thick? Thin, maybe. Or could it be slim?”

  He'd like to know who makes up all this nonsense.

  Attempts to solve the prize question, no chance.

  Who's the guy on the photo? A singer, maybe? Nope, it says actor: H-gh Gr—t? To hell with him, how is anyone supposed to solve this with half the letters missing?

  He gives up.

  Cat comes up for a cuddle. Bothersome creature, always wanting something or another.

  It's almost time for Sofia to get up. Another reason to feel annoyed.

  The thought hardly took shape in his head, and she was already there.

  Not even a “Good morning.” Nothing. Instead, she immediately starts complaining.

  “How many times have I asked? If you must smoke, do it on the balcony! And you’ve been grinding your teeth all night again. Why haven't you shaved? The Mass starts at 10 am. Afterwards we're going to my mum's for lunch. We’ve got to buy her a gift, it's her birthday.”

  Fausto doesn't feel like going to the mass, not to mention her mum's afterwards, but there's no point in arguing.

  “Listen, do I have to?”

  “What kind of a question is that?”

  Even if he planned not to get annoyed, this now proves an impossible task. His doctor advised him to try and stay calm, to eliminate negative emotions, but try as he might, this ain't working.

  Oh mister doctor, sir, what sort of peaceful Sunday morning were you talking about?