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These ordinary women we simply forget. This extraordinary one - by a twist of fate - shatters the previous way of thinking. She exists in our lives for only a few hours, but in the memory, she stays forever.
He opened his eyes. The mirage dissipated like smoke from a cigarette. He had a strange feeling that he had dreamed something, but he couldn’t recreate the dreamlike mirage. After a while, he already knew what had prevented further rest.
He lay on his back with his hands under his head. He felt the cum that had somehow strangely collected in the hollow under his back cool down. He should get up. He should clean up. He should do many things.
He thought indifferently about his girlfriend. In the past, he often caught himself remembering her longingly. He imagined what her body looked like. Does she still have that hairline running from her belly button down to her bosom? Does her fresh sweat have the same pungent smell?
The wet dreams about Ginny soon ended. Once in a while, he would wake up in the middle of the night with a head full of erotic fantasies. Most of the daydreams were meaningless and monotonous, quite like waking life.
Probably yesterday’s meeting triggered the memories.
They had an unsuccessful conversation as usual. One too long delay between question and answer destroyed the importance of the infrequent contact with his girlfriend. The rhythm of the words tore or sounded monotonous and emotionless.
Things were going badly between them. After dispassionate questions about the health of family and friends, their relationship crisis surfaced in all its glory.
“I thought things would get better,” she said during yesterday’s conversation. "I really thought so. I thought you’d be back soon and that maybe we’d make it, you know."
Listening to her, he was remorseful. She was crying. He knew he was at fault. He was a pathetic piece of shit. A grown woman, not an immature girl, expressed disappointment; he was the perpetrator of her grief.
“I’m sorry. You know me,” she tried to ease at the end.
No, he thought. I don’t know you at all. Maybe I used to know you; it was another Ginny, and for her, God is my witness, I miss her.
He refrained from uttering these thoughts.
He recalled their first night together. The rustling of lace and tulle. The blue garter. She tried to pull the blue ribbon from her thigh with her teeth. Fresh bedding has a smell. The taste of salty sweat mixed with a slight bitterness of femininity. He felt the flesh trembling under his fingers. The voice. A sound in his head. A scream. Nails dug into the tense muscles of his back.
He felt the pain. He shuddered, shaking himself off, returning to the here and now.
That’s in the past, he explained to himself for the second time. Although sometimes something gnawed at him, something caught in his throat. Loneliness.
He rose from his bed. He slept through the day. The sky outside the window looked as shabby as his bedding, which he hadn’t washed in too long. He looked around at the mess in the room. He had a cluttered and didn’t care. However, there were days when he looked at the Armageddon in his bedroom with some irritation.
Outside the window, gray was creeping across the lawn. It was late evening. A fine rain was drizzling down. A colorless drizzle distorting distances and killing sounds.
Everything blended into a sepia color. The view behind the glass, the mood, the life, the future.
He could not call the past months a good time. Constantly filled with a sense of defeat, of failure, as he trudged off to work after a rough night’s sleep. He lived for the day, not looking further ahead in his plans than tomorrow.
He walked into the bathroom; the mirror was the only decent design element: large, encompassing his entire figure. He carefully examined his reflection, the scrutiny expected only of women; men are unlikely to practice it. Anxiety took its toll on his face - his skin became anemic, the bags under his eyes filled in. The traces of the war had a heavy impact on him, not only on his psyche, but also on his body. The only thing he was satisfied with was his teeth; white, even, strong.
He tried a smile for the smooth taffy, but it no longer had the sparkle it used to have. The furrows around his mouth had deepened, and his gaze betrayed a lack of optimism. He was no longer the tall man at the sight of whom eyebrows raised and women’s lips parted.
Ginny initially reacted to the flirtatious glances of strange women with humorous scenes of jealousy, more than once giving gentle nudges to her partner. The image of a joint trip to Paris. Where they pretended to be strangers for entertainment
The girlfriend, still sitting at the bar, smiled coquettishly and looked from under her long eyelashes at Harry, who was taking a seat at one table. He moved closer to her. Slowly, crouching like a hunting predator.
"Will you give me pleasure and drink wine with me?"
Gallant and elegant, Ginny always liked it.
She nodded slightly in a gesture of approval. They talked about teatr, literature. Holding her in his embrace in the middle of the dance floor, he could feel her trembling, full of anticipation and excitement.
Already in the room, he whispered,
"You have a beautiful body. I immediately drew my attention to the line of your buttocks. Truly captivating."
Later, when routine had already invaded the relationship, they tried to repeat the game; it didn’t work out. Playful scenes of jealousy turned into serious brawls.
He shook off the memories and shifted his observation from his face to the rest of his body. A layer of fat appeared on his abdominal muscles. The hand that caught the roll of skin committed itself to his crotch. He unwillingly stimulated himself to a state of incomplete erection. There was nothing erotic about the action, just a simple curiosity to see if he could wring the life out of his flaccid cock.He thought about the wasted day. He felt like drinking. To drink and get drunk. He hadn’t done that in a long time. Work had taken away opportunities for entertainment. He was used to getting up early. Occasionally, in the evening, he drank beer, but he wasn’t fond of it. Today, when talking about drinking, he meant vodka. A lot of vodka.
After returning to his room, he got dressed.
Arriving in France, he had a sense of freedom, but also a sense that he would have to rise to the occasion and make the right choices.
On his first day, he remembered. He watched the world from behind the bus windows. He satiated his eyes with the attractions that the huge metropolitan area offered. The people, the stores, the advertisements - he craved details, no matter how trivial they were. He glued his face to the glass. The bus flashed by and slowly got out of the city’s congestion.
Initially, upon his arrival, he did not shy away from social life, especially women. On over one occasion, he ventured out into the city and, after a lavish evening of drinking, landed in cozy apartments alongside barely acquainted female amateurs of sexual games. The associated remorse kept him at home for several consecutive evenings. However, he eventually returned to bars and unfamiliar women.
At work, he was a bully. He could obscure his face with a mask and seal his lips, at which point no one could guess what was going on in his head. He explained to himself that it was only for a while. He saw no point in establishing closer relationships with anyone. After all, he was soon to return to England, to his girlfriend, family, and friends. It’s not worth locating affection for a barely met colleague from work.
Today he shuffled through the dark streets, beating his thoughts.
A store with bright neon signs was conspicuous. On the display He has reached his destination. A small shop on the border of the magical and Muggle parts of the city
The smell, or rather the stench, of fermented beer and sweat struck him. Bells hanging just inside the door communicated the arrival of a customer.
At the counter stood two drunk guys. Loud French. In a not very picky way, they complimented the girl serving them, who was just now sticking her bottom out, bending down to get alcohol from the lowest shelf.
He glanced curiously at the object of the natives’ adoration. From what he remembered, young men usually staffed the store; this was the first time he had seen a woman here. Working the night shift in a 24-hour liquor store was certainly not one of the safest jobs.
All he could see was the washed color of the once-black jeans hugging the shapely rump.
The owner of the shapely ass finally turned around, strangely, slowly. Long hair obscured half of her face. She looked at the customers with one big, sarcastic eye. The color of the shed surrounding the petite face brought several associations to Harry; the stray hairstyle had an intense, almost white.
.
Although tiny, the shopkeeper was built proportionally. Despite the chill outside, she exposed her modest breasts; she wore a tight t-shirt, from under which a bright bra shone through, lifting and squeezing her breasts.
Her cheeks were rosy, and she looked healthy, as if she had just taken a break from milking cows rather than selling the cheapest vodka.
Despite the insistent chatter of the customers, she was pouring the gaze of her one eye on the newcomer.
He thought for a moment that she was out of her mind. The impression faded when she spoke in french.
- Something else? - The voice was almost childlike, slightly squeaky.
Despite the initial feeling, it turned out that her gaze was clear, fully aware. If there was any shadow of madness in it, it was there with the owner’s permission - a touch of madness, nurtured for unknown reasons.
She smiled, as if she knew his thoughts. Her face momentarily showed the cunning of a Beirut cab driver and the grace of a child all in one.Disregarding the taunts of the two half-wits, she placed the bottle on the counter andknocked the product on the old cash register. Mechanically, she put her free-flowing hair behind her ear, exposing her previously hidden cheek.
The men burst out laughing. Rubbing elbows with each other, they gibberish ly mocked the girl.
He glanced again at the victim of the jokes. A pink scar crisscrossed the subtle face. It stretched from the temples to the corner of the mouth. The delicate, taut SKIN shone and attracted attention.
The shopkeeper, not losing her resonance, repeated her question. Another volley of laughter followed the answer. The drunken men, already with no inhibitions, insulted the victim.
He didn’t have time to think; he acted spontaneously. His hand into his pocket as one of the drunken men pulled out his wand. Colored light flashed before the French could utter a word. Blood gushed from the broken hand. Before the French could react, Harry was already tugging his victim by the halves of his unzipped jacket, forcibly pushing him out into the street. The adrenaline buzzing in his body dictated his next moves. His opponent recoiled in pain after the spell punched his stomach.
He stood at a safe distance, regaining clarity of mind. He usually avoided conflict, often preferring to put his pride in his pocket rather than get into a discussion, or worse, a brawl.
The bells at the door made a distinctive sound. A second robber appeared. He glared at his assailant, then shakily approached his panting colleague.
Harry had already bunched his muscles, ready to fend off another attack. However, the Frencg had enough sense not to get into a fight with a stranger newcomer.
"Fuck off!" He tried to make his voice sound confident and loud.
He calmed his breathing, making sure that the bullies would not come looking for a rematch. However, they moved away slowly, stopping now and then and cursing loudly. Champions of the ring.
The girl stood behind the counter with a thoughtful expression on her face, as if the situation from a moment ago had not happened.
“And what the fuck am I supposed to do now? After all, I’ve already purchased the damn thing,” she angrily maligned under her breath.
“Withdraw the purchase, make a correction. I don’t know; I don’t know about cash registers,” he replied in his native tongue.
Only now she raised her head and looked at the man with surprise.
"I do not work here, I am replacing a colleague. He left for a moment." She glanced at her watch. "In fact, an hour ago. He should be back by now. Damn, I don’t know how a correction is done." She wrinkled her nose in a gesture of displeasure.
He looked at the girl in silence. She returned the gaze. He liked it. Usually women avoided open “staring.” He sensed something more than simple curiosity in the investigative gaze.
What could there be here, he wondered, to look at? A man with fatigue written on his face, a body sluggish from an excess of bad food and lack of exercise, a gaze bored with life.
However, a dark, sarcastic eye watched him with obvious fascination. She ostentatiously brushed back her hair, once again displaying her sternness, as if she were judging him.
“You want, I’ll take a peek at this contraption,” he offered, still watching the girl’s facial expressions.
He approached the store counter and, leaning over, tried to glance at the checkout buttons.
“Hey, I can handle it. You’ll still get your paws in here and take the cash out,” she resisted, not firm.
She pulled in her belly to increase the distance from the stranger.
"I’m Was I supposed to beat those drunks to rob you later?" expressed surprise, at the same time moving away from the counter.He smiled tartly from under his day-old beard; rather arrogantly.
“I have listened enough to be careful,” she explained. "Paul warned..." she stopped in mid-sentence, as a familiar sound announced another customer.
"I am" it was said from the threshold.
"You were only supposed to leave for a moment. Nobody pays me to deal with drunks!" shouted the shopkeeper, coming out from behind the counter. "Fuck you and fuck such a job. Don’t count on me next time."
The scarred face reddened. The girl was pissed off beyond belief.
A fierce snarl ensued. Harry stood passively, listening to the nervous exchange of words, to Paul’s intricate explanations. In a gesture of support, he moved closer to the girl, trying to shield her with his figure from the gaze of the boy, who finally turned his attention to him.
"And who are you" He looked accusingly at Harry. -"I think I told you not to bring anyone here," he turned to the whitehead again.
"I wanted to do some shopping, but..."
“He wanted to do some shopping,” she repeated like an echo, “but he almost got punched in the face. He chased two drunks out of here and wanted to help.”
The pace of the conversation slowed down, emotions subsided.
“Give me a four-pack and we’ll call it even. I’ve had enough of this place,” she offered conciliatorily.
The shopkeeper reached for the beer cans without further discussion.
"And what do you want?" She asked her defender, who still did not take part in the discussion.
"The same thing." He gave up the vodka; he had had enough of the experience.
Clutching the beer under his arm, he let her through the door. The chill of the night greeted them. Blinded by neon lights, they stood in silence in front of the shop window.
"So what are we going to do with such a beautifully started evening?" she asked.
"And what do you propose?" he became curious for a moment.
"Let’s take a walk." she stated rather than asked.
“Sure,” he replied despite himself.
They set off. In silence. Accustomed to a steady rhythm, he imposed a fast pace. The girl had to run up now and then to keep up with him. He took one step; she took two. She did not complain. Only her rapid breathing testified that the walk was giving her a hard time; he slowed down.
When her breathing finally returned to normal, she spoke up.
"Call me Fleur"