Ivan Rebrov woke up, as always too early, it was not yet six. Whenever he went to bed, sober or more often drunk, he woke up at this time and did not know where to put himself, especially recent years. He slid down from the wide bed and stepping over thick carpet went to the door. Passing by the high mirror, he glanced with no particular interest at his bare thirty-five-year lean and sinewy body. Without closing the door behind him in the toilet, he began to urinate, carefully examining the brown puddle in a toilet bowl. This morning it was almost of brick color, whether from the drugs or from the disease itself. Then for the first time in a day he cautiously, as if it was a child, touched his chubby and sore liver.
On the way back, before reaching his door, he grasped the door handle of the adjacent second of his bedrooms and jerked it open. On the wide bed lay a sleeping girl, scattered among the crumpled sheets. Last night his driver brought this night-butterfly for him. Rebrov did not even ask her name: she would have lied anyway. He called her Masha then as all of them before.
Yesterday Rebrov could not do anything with this girl. His right side ached badly after the dinner. He tried to fondle her, but immediately was overcome with nausea. So two of them just sat in silence and watched TV till midnight. When he paid and ushered her to the doors she started to beg him pitifully to stay till morning: she had no place to sleep. He did not like it, but thought maybe he will get stronger in the morning, could try again, and maybe that was the better time for him to have sex. So she stayed.
He entered the door, silently walked to the bed, stopped beside it and gently pulled off the sheet from her body. Asleep, she lay on her back, slightly bent at the knees, tanned, and with a sharp white strip where her panties should have been. Looking up and down at her beautiful naked body, he attentively listened to his own desire. There was none. He felt only that familiar big and cold, whining but not yet really aching, in his right side of the belly – the liver.
The rage silently aroused inside of him. His hand grabbed the edge of the sheet to tear it away, to wake her up, and then to give her more money, to get her away from his house, out to the highway to get herself a taxi and beat off to her Moscow. But it came to him that it will raise her crying, screams, noise, and it will destroy the soothing silence of his morning house. He gritted his teeth, then threw the bed sheet back over her body and went back to his room.