Fragment (2)

- Życie składa się ze zmarnowanych szans i zgubionych próbek perfum - powiedziała Lorca filozoficznie, gdy przeszukała już cały dom i nie znalazła małej fiolki, pieczołowicie napełnionej przez panią w Sephorze kilkoma mililitrami "Elle" Yves Saint Laurenta. To był dzień takich właśnie refleksji, listopadowej szarości za oknem, fatalnej fryzury i braku olejku pomarańczowego. A przecież to powszechnie znana prawda: życie w listopadzie bez olejku pomarańczowego jest nie do zniesienia.

Chwilę później zaginiona próbka perfum odnalazła się; jak podejrzewała Lorca, była cały czas w torebce i okazała się zdecydowanie zbyt kwiatowa, banalna i bez wyrazu. Jak na listopadowe perfumy, rzecz jasna.

Listopadowe perfumy, dumała Lorca, powinny być ciepłe i smaczne. Nie tak dwuznaczne, jak perfumy grudniowe, w których przez nuty cynamonu, goździków i wanilii przebija się zawsze nuta świerku, topniejącego śniegu i dymu, tylko bezwzględnie korzenne i z domieszką olejku do opalania. Żeby przywrócić słońce i ciepło. Inaczej szarość, wycięta z bloku o jednolitym odcieniu, zje człowieka z kościami i nie zostawi niczego. Ani skraweczka. To nie jest szarość lutowa ani marcowa, nakrapiana różnymi odcieniami. To kompletnie monochromatyczna nieprzejrzysta nieprzenikniona brudna szarość bieli i czerni, wymieszanych dokładnie, bez grudek i smug, bez plam czy wtrąceń innego koloru.

Lorca z niechęcią popatrzyła na swój zimowy płaszcz. Też był szary. Od jakiegoś czasu zastanawiała się nad obszyciem mu rękawów czerwoną koronką.

Poznań, 191107

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