Shallow Breathing

by Robert Vrbnjak

  ***

  The sermon was interesting. The priest managed to rope in the election, consumerism, pre-marital sex and crime reports. He also told a story about as yet unidentified thief paying church a visit last Friday and availing himself of a box full of holiday donations. The priest ran after the thief, even though it is rather unbecoming, seeing a priest run after a common thief. He didn't manage to catch him, the priest explained, as he “ran out of air”. Can it be that the priest, too, is suffering from “shallow breathing?”

  On their way out, they bumped into Tomeks. Those people were a real bore. Fausto pretended not to have seen them, but there was no escape. Tomek opened his mouth and out of it came, “How are you doing?” Fausto thought of this morning's crossword puzzle. He knew what the other man was asking, but couldn't be bothered with answering.

  “How am I doing? Doing what, exactly?” He said the first thing that came into his head, then stared at his wife’s cleavage.

  Tomek looked taken aback, he is a businessman after all, no sense of humour. “I meant, what have you been up to lately?”

  “I see.” Fausto would've preferred to say, “As if you give a fuck” but instead he lifted his large

  fists in front of his head and adopted a shadow boxing stance. Perhaps he should inform Tomek how he spends his days doing precisely fuck all? I mean, what is the point of trying to hold a basically meaningless conversation with this allegedly successful businessmen he has nothing in common with anyway?

  “Right!” Tomek jumps into his own conclusions, probably thinking Fausto is still working as a bouncer. “Excellent. Do get in touch, ok?” He flashed an idiotic grin, obviously running out of ideas, and fast “See you around, then!” He tugged his wife's sleeve “We do need to hurry, dear.”

  Sofia wasn't too pleased, but that was nothing new. When was she ever pleased?

  “You really are vulgar! Those people are really nice. Maybe they could even help you out!” She went on and on like this “And what were you doing, staring at his wife like that?”

  “How am I doing? How am I doing?” Well, let’s see how she is doing, then, thought that’ll teach him a lesson. He tried to wriggle out of that one, but he knew full well Sofia wasn't falling for it.

  They walked into a shop, the one that opened on Sundays. Fausto bought tons of salami from here over the years, when he used to live on salami sandwiches. The place was crowded, and Fausto immediately blamed this on that fat shop assistant, the dead slow one, probably on some kind of medication, too - it was a miracle Fausto resisted the urge to reach over that desk and give her a sound slap across the face. How many times did he ask for a “hundred grams of mortadella”, and she'd start slicing it in that absent-minded way of hers, and every time she would ask, “Hundred and fifty ok?” And he'd go, “Fuck no! I said a hundred!” Same old story, every time! When he enquired why was it she could never give him what he asked for, she replied that she wasn’t a precision mechanic, merely a shop assistant.

  Sofia chose a gift, a juice-maker, massively overpriced, so her mum could sip on natural juices, and an expensive box of chocolates. She loves her mother and takes good care of her, unlike Fausto and his parents. He hasn’t seen them for ten years. Who knows if they’re still alive? She picked up a bouquet of flowers from the flower shop next door. As she still seemed upset over what happened with Tomeks, Fausto offered to help her carry some stuff, but couldn’t help feeling like an idiot walking across the square with a bunch of flowers in his hands.

  They arrived to his mother in law at midday. “Happy Birthday, Mother” Sofia exchanged kisses with her mum, whilst Fausto studied a photo of a mustached man hanging crookedly on the wall - it was his father in law, luckily long dead and gone. Keeping a safe distance, he handed over the flowers, but never heard his mother in law actually thank him. Fuck, could she be any more annoying! He couldn’t stand her, just like she could never stand him. Even now, she’s looking down at him, letting him know he’s not good enough for her daughter: never was, and never will be. After drinking a glass of wine with her lunch, she became openly sarcastic, in an effort to abridge the gap between habitually hiding her real feelings and a desire to tell this bolding uncouth man sitting at her table exactly what she thought of him. After they’ve eaten, she pulled out a few dusty classical records. Fausto thought his head would explode, but Sofia seemed to enjoy them. It’s been a while since she last heard the Mozart's Sonata. Her mother came over all sentimental. Her only daughter used to be a piano player! She could’ve chosen anyone! “For Christ’s sake, Sofia, your name means wisdom in Greek! Be who you really are: a smart girl from a good family.” Next she starts frothing about some guy who used to be into Sofia, and who had become a university dean, “despite his modest beginnings”, all the while staring at Fausto, as if to point out what a looser her son in law really is.

  In the end, Fausto pushes the toothpick into the corner of his moth and the minute Sofia makes it back from the loo, says: “Off I go.”

  “Oh really?” Sofia doesn't seem surprised.

  Of course not, this is hardly his scene. Perhaps they can have one of those “mother and daughter” talks they seem to cherish so. Before more guests arrive, which only meant more people capable of making Fausto want to throw up.

  “I don’t have the key,” he says, as he’s walking out.

  “You know where it is. In the same place.”

  “Ok,” he says, but thinks. “Stupid cow! Leaving the key underneath the flowerpot! Someone’s bound to find it there one day!”