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09/18/2021
4ajbukoshka
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4ajbukoshka
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12
The Italian James Dean of the time
"You already know that this is the men's perfume? I'll be happy to show you the women's perfumes. Do you already know the new V..."
("I just know one thing above all: that my bias towards employees of a certain perfumery chain is unfortunately justified," she would have liked to reply, or preach a sermon about how unprofessional and sales-promoting it can be to forbid non-men to buy products whose marketing has chosen men as a target group, but instead she escapes with a polite) "Yes, thank you. I would like to test what has changed in the new version here apart from the bottle."
The bottle is still pretty to look at, still reminiscent of studs from "Rockstud" bags and shoes, exclusive, stylish - and now with a lid and a rivet neck ruff reminiscent of S&M games, which it did not need. For a moment, she wonders if Valentino Garavani "the one and only" also secretly laughed at this, if he ever got to see the design at all.
Tfft tfft. One spray on the wrist, one on paper. In the event that this "Uomo" is no longer himself, she does not want to have regretted her daring.
More than Tfft tfft it needs then also not for the small time travel.
It is October 2020 and Tshajbukoshka gets a call. Whether she would like to come. Signor Il heartbreaker's best friend has exhibited all her works at home and made a small vernissage out of it, for a select circle, a maximum of five people may admire them today. Tshajbukoshka calculates: Malena and her boyfriend, as well as her best friend, then there would be Signor - and she would be the fifth person. She would not miss this opportunity! Faster she had never grabbed the most expensive bottle of Primitivo from the cupboard into the bag, from the "other", Mario, Valentino, and redone the lipstick. She hears him before she sees him and is out of her mind like a 14-year-old in 2010 before the concert of Justin Bieber. That voice, deep, grown-up, louder than a vacuum cleaner with a V8 engine and just bursting with confidence. In her mind's eye, she sees him gesticulating, throwing things around and straightening his curls every now and then with a well (enough) camouflaged head movement backwards (not for Tshajbukoshka's attentive eyes). His presence is literally felt, one could almost think that the bass of his voice makes the floor vibrate, especially when he rolls the 'R' extended. The charm of the Italian remake of James Dean is not so easy to escape, not even if you have to listen to him just strained, as he muses, of course in Italian, about the herbs on his balcony.
"Signorina, I smoked today," he confesses meekly, while looking at her with furrowed brows, making a pout and turning his cheek. She smells nothing of it. He smells the way he always looks: scrumptious, mysterious, special, forbidden good. Oh mio Dio.
"You've had a bit to drink, though, so I'll be driving today." - "Really? Be meravigliosa! I thought you were mad." (- How could I possibly be mad. I probably wouldn't even be if I woke up in the morning and you told me you just stole half my lungs and liver) She laughs. The evening is excellent, the artwork on display impressive - and yet, in a few months after this day, Tshajbukoshka will be asked only to remember him, what he looked like, what he said, what he did - the Italian tidbit who lets himself be carried into his own car, drunk as a skunk, only to protest loudly because he still has to hold the driver's door open for his signorina and apologize to his car for not driving himself. Strapped on the back seat he gives his interpretations of Andrea Bocelli, Il Volo and Random to the best with a fervor, which could conclude on ten opera singers.
At some point, it gets quiet. The singing has stopped. Tshajbukoshka opens her window and adjusts the rearview mirror to see him in it, sleeping peacefully with her stuffed animal in his arms, his curls in his forehead. ("Sweet!")
Once home, she gets him just awake enough to move, supported by her, up to the bed. In full gear. The smell of his leather jacket stays there until the next morning, although Tshajbukoshka manages with difficulty to get rid of it (and his shoes). So that's why people in horror movies never pick kidnap victims who are a head taller and more than thirty kilos heavier than themselves.
An exhausted Tshajbukoshka throws herself on the bed after a wonderful evening.
"How do you actually know it's love?"
- "When it smells like home on his temple, you don't know it, you feel it."
That Valentino, it's just him.
A phrase that fits Tshajbukoshka, Signor Il heartbreaker and Valentino alike: "I'm a year later a year older, but apart from the appearance I have not changed, at least that's how I feel - and those who know me know and confirm it gladly."
Comment from my friend: "You always smell so delicious, for you I would become a cannibal."
Another friend: "Sure you're not a lesbian? Somehow it emphasizes your masculine streak."
Her friend:"
"Can I have a go? I like this one, hopefully it will suit me too."
("I just know one thing above all: that my bias towards employees of a certain perfumery chain is unfortunately justified," she would have liked to reply, or preach a sermon about how unprofessional and sales-promoting it can be to forbid non-men to buy products whose marketing has chosen men as a target group, but instead she escapes with a polite) "Yes, thank you. I would like to test what has changed in the new version here apart from the bottle."
The bottle is still pretty to look at, still reminiscent of studs from "Rockstud" bags and shoes, exclusive, stylish - and now with a lid and a rivet neck ruff reminiscent of S&M games, which it did not need. For a moment, she wonders if Valentino Garavani "the one and only" also secretly laughed at this, if he ever got to see the design at all.
Tfft tfft. One spray on the wrist, one on paper. In the event that this "Uomo" is no longer himself, she does not want to have regretted her daring.
More than Tfft tfft it needs then also not for the small time travel.
It is October 2020 and Tshajbukoshka gets a call. Whether she would like to come. Signor Il heartbreaker's best friend has exhibited all her works at home and made a small vernissage out of it, for a select circle, a maximum of five people may admire them today. Tshajbukoshka calculates: Malena and her boyfriend, as well as her best friend, then there would be Signor - and she would be the fifth person. She would not miss this opportunity! Faster she had never grabbed the most expensive bottle of Primitivo from the cupboard into the bag, from the "other", Mario, Valentino, and redone the lipstick. She hears him before she sees him and is out of her mind like a 14-year-old in 2010 before the concert of Justin Bieber. That voice, deep, grown-up, louder than a vacuum cleaner with a V8 engine and just bursting with confidence. In her mind's eye, she sees him gesticulating, throwing things around and straightening his curls every now and then with a well (enough) camouflaged head movement backwards (not for Tshajbukoshka's attentive eyes). His presence is literally felt, one could almost think that the bass of his voice makes the floor vibrate, especially when he rolls the 'R' extended. The charm of the Italian remake of James Dean is not so easy to escape, not even if you have to listen to him just strained, as he muses, of course in Italian, about the herbs on his balcony.
"Signorina, I smoked today," he confesses meekly, while looking at her with furrowed brows, making a pout and turning his cheek. She smells nothing of it. He smells the way he always looks: scrumptious, mysterious, special, forbidden good. Oh mio Dio.
"You've had a bit to drink, though, so I'll be driving today." - "Really? Be meravigliosa! I thought you were mad." (- How could I possibly be mad. I probably wouldn't even be if I woke up in the morning and you told me you just stole half my lungs and liver) She laughs. The evening is excellent, the artwork on display impressive - and yet, in a few months after this day, Tshajbukoshka will be asked only to remember him, what he looked like, what he said, what he did - the Italian tidbit who lets himself be carried into his own car, drunk as a skunk, only to protest loudly because he still has to hold the driver's door open for his signorina and apologize to his car for not driving himself. Strapped on the back seat he gives his interpretations of Andrea Bocelli, Il Volo and Random to the best with a fervor, which could conclude on ten opera singers.
At some point, it gets quiet. The singing has stopped. Tshajbukoshka opens her window and adjusts the rearview mirror to see him in it, sleeping peacefully with her stuffed animal in his arms, his curls in his forehead. ("Sweet!")
Once home, she gets him just awake enough to move, supported by her, up to the bed. In full gear. The smell of his leather jacket stays there until the next morning, although Tshajbukoshka manages with difficulty to get rid of it (and his shoes). So that's why people in horror movies never pick kidnap victims who are a head taller and more than thirty kilos heavier than themselves.
An exhausted Tshajbukoshka throws herself on the bed after a wonderful evening.
"How do you actually know it's love?"
- "When it smells like home on his temple, you don't know it, you feel it."
That Valentino, it's just him.
A phrase that fits Tshajbukoshka, Signor Il heartbreaker and Valentino alike: "I'm a year later a year older, but apart from the appearance I have not changed, at least that's how I feel - and those who know me know and confirm it gladly."
Comment from my friend: "You always smell so delicious, for you I would become a cannibal."
Another friend: "Sure you're not a lesbian? Somehow it emphasizes your masculine streak."
Her friend:"
"Can I have a go? I like this one, hopefully it will suit me too."
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