A Man, a Girl, a Deserted Island - an Epic Love Hate Saga

Episode 53: I Know How to Open Bottles

Irina's mother was around fifty years old and was one of those "special" women, meaning she wore lipstick, blush, her eyebrows were so plucked that nothing was left of them, and, of course, "soot" on her eyelashes. For whom had she dolled up like this?

She was a tired wreck, but... she was her mother.

I profoundly disliked her. From the way she looked, she was a phony. Women who paint their faces with a brush are either whores or fools. Sometimes both.

I remember during high school, on one of my skipping days, I saw an interesting movie at the cinema, a kind of dark comedy. The plot was simple:

A guy had gotten married and had taken one of those, a special one.

On their wedding night, they retired to the bridal room for some discussions. He got into bed and waited for her. She was standing in front of the mirror.

She wiped off her lipstick.

She removed her makeup and mascara.

She placed her false eyelashes on the table.

She took off her wig. She was bald.

She pulled out two rolls of cotton from her bra.

She took out her dentures.

She removed an eye. She had a glass eye.

Finally, she took off her wooden leg and leaned it against the wall, then hopped to the bed.

The guy jumped out the window.

That's why I say: I didn't like Irina's mother at all.

My mother never wore makeup, and I loved her. Irina didn't wear makeup, and I loved her.

Why do women disfigure themselves like this?

"He's Tiberiu," Irina said from behind her mother. "He's a law student and likes pastries."

"Uh-huh," her mother said, sizing me up from head to toe.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Irina excused herself, leaving. "I'm taking a shower. I'll let you get acquainted."

We were left alone. We sized each other up like two dogs wanting to pee on the same car tire.

"Good afternoon, ma'am!"

"Good afternoon, handsome! Why are you just standing there? Come in, dear, come in!"

She led me to the living room. Irina had disappeared.

I sat on the couch. The couch was nice. It hugged me from behind, I sank into it. It was soft and pleasant. I liked it.

In front of the couch was a small table. I heard water running in the bathroom.

Irina and her mother had a lot of flowerpots in the living room.

Flowers on the walls, flowers on the shelves, flowers on the cupboard, flowers on the radiator near the balcony door... other flowers. Actually, not flowers. Just plants... Fucking weeds. Green stems and green leaves of all shapes. I counted about 28 pots, then got bored and stopped.

I hate weeds, especially in the house. I feel like they take away my air. My mother, likewise, had a real obsession with 'weeds'. When my father came home drunk, he often threw her pots against the wall.

I don't understand people who turn their homes into jungles. Since I can remember, from childhood to this day, I can walk past flowers without noticing them, unlike others who stop and exclaim: "Wow, what a beautiful flower!"