Александр Чечитов
Modzi's performance

The air was filled with the sweet aroma of strong coffee laced with vanilla syrup, and Tamish couldn't wait to wash away all the smells after his long shift at the cafe. With fifteen minutes left in the shift, two half-drunk girls who had been sitting at a small table by the window since midday ordered two more drinks. After they finished their alcohol, Tamish waited a moment and approached the giggling couple.

"Alas, dear ladies," Tamish said as politely as possible, "we are closing, and I must ask you to leave our establishment."

"Did you hear that, Mil?" one of the girls asked her friend, hiccupping twice.

"No," the other girl smiled, "maybe you imagined it." Tamish's headache intensified, and he struggled to stay standing.

"I didn't imagine it," Tamish said, his voice slightly louder than usual. Upon hearing Tamish's words, Mil's face contorted in deep disgust, and she spat out the softened words: "Get out, Chaldean!" A vile feeling of nausea was added to the throbbing convulsions in his skull.

"If I hadn't stayed on duty until closing today," Tamish said angrily, "I would have been sleeping peacefully in Arisa's bed. God, it could have been so perfect. Why am I not there?"

"Hey," the second girl said loudly, "there's no need to stand over me. Over us! You were told to get out." Gathering his will into a fist, Tamish exhaled a long breath, after which he grabbed the two by the arms, and dragged them to the exit. On the way, the girls broke dishes and pulled down lace tablecloths from empty tables.

– Stop, cut! – a loud voice sounded from a loudhailer over the heads of the girls, who were frozen in place, – great. The tall, narrow-faced director appeared before the actors, pushing back the curtains. The three of them remained silent, waiting for his instructions.

"Modzi," the director shouted, turning half-way, "did we succeed?" In response, only a wheezing sound came from the radio on the director's belt.

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