Kirza G Parfums 2016

'All right,' thought Eugene, 'enough for today.' He stood at a loading dock, watching some figures carrying large crates onto a dodgy boat. "Look out!" he barked. One of his men had dropped a crate, and a carbine barrel flashed out. A faint metallic haze rose to his nose as warm drops of the night's summer rain pelted the earth and asphalt. A man approached him, middle American. A faint whiff of cilantro wafted from this one to him. Dinner hadn't been long, but he hadn't had time for it himself. 'Mexican would be great, if only it wasn't so late already...' - with a growling stomach, he looked towards him, raising a brow questioningly. The man pulled out an envelope, thickly stuffed. Eugene opened it, letting the green bills rush through his fingers, nodding with satisfaction. "Fits." A firm handshake, and the man was gone among the port's containers. Eugene stubbed out his menthol cigarette, turned, waved the men back. He himself walked over to his Harley, stroked the seat. Here in New Orleans, the weather was sweltering, the high-quality Soviet-style synthetic leather resistant to it. The cotton fabric was crisscrossed with thin threads of sweetish resin. It shone, soaked and sealed by the darkest patchouli oil. His black leather jacket was genuine, the leather breathing better in the warm damp, and it had to remain authentic. The twin cylinders hummed, the faint smell of burnt gasoline rising from the chrome-plated, upturned exhaust. They drove off, and as they turned off the dock toward town, they passed a small road construction site. The workers had finished work late, and the rain drizzled hissingly on the still-warm asphalt. Shortly, they saw a crosswalk in the distance. The dim yellow light of the streetlamp cast its glow on a small, old woman. Bingo night was getting late, and, glancing in the direction of the approaching motorcycles, she set foot in the street. Her little apartment was just across the street, and a dimly lit window revealed where her husband was waiting patiently for her to return home. Hopefully he hadn't fallen asleep again over the latest articles in the morning paper. Eugene raised his fist silently as they drove, the others understanding. They slowed, stopped. The light from their headlights reflected on the wet asphalt. Leisurely, the smiling old woman crossed the road while Eugene lit another of his menthol cigarettes. He too had a heart, and the soft, warm smell of his surroundings made him feel calm and content. He, too, was looking forward to his warm bed, and perhaps there was time enough to read a little story to his children.