Hi Friends!

Being a part of We-write community I'm happy to present this short story by the name "The Bedbug"

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank @deirdyweirdy for helping me to deal with the complexities of the language. 

Thank you, my lady! I really appreciate your time and effort!

<center><h1>THE BEDBUG</h1></center>

<center>https://i.imgur.com/BkX5a07.jpg</center>

Greg felt like having something sweet. He placed a twenty-calorie lollipop in his mouth and sucked on it. He'd already purchased the souvenirs his wife had requested for their upcoming visit to relatives, so he decided to take a little stroll. The old town had a certain timelessness about it and in the sleepy calm of that Sunday afternoon, he rejoiced that he was alone to roam and collect his thoughts.

Again last night he had dreamed of Marie the girl from his distant past and the break-up which circumstances had forced upon him in the middle of a hot affair. In his dream, she was in the company of strangers and when he called to her and she turned to face him, he saw in her eyes a sense of detachment. Such dreams and the memories that followed sent waves of mud crashing through Greg's mind, weighing heavily upon his soul and squeezing the walls of his arteries.

As he walked along, he noticed an ancient-looking shop.  'Ant que Book Shop' declared the sign outside, hanging precariously by one nail, the letter "I" having given up and deserted his post. Inside, the shop smelled strongly of the mold with a hint of cheap cognac.

Greg came closer to the counter where the proprietor discussed something with another client, wondering if he had been drinking, but concluded that the man was hardly the type. Rather he looked like a pencil pusher; receding hair, shaggy beard, puny narrow shoulders, crumpled, shriveled, slouching.

‘Actually’, thought Greg, ‘it doesn't smell like cognac but like bedbugs.’ As if to prove him right a bedbug appeared on the counter in front of him. Grinning widely he was about to crush it but thinking the better of it flicked it off the counter and began to examine the books on display.  

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https://i.imgur.com/fOvjuIG.jpg
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Greg started to walk between several bookshelves and stands looking at the books.
‘I’m not sure about antiques but these sure are old,’ he thought as he moved among the shelves filled with dilapidated looking books in all sorts of languages:  Old Russian, English, French writings, Arabic and Persian curls, 
https://i.imgur.com/TPsDT2U.jpg
and even Japanese hieroglyphs. 

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<hr>
‘Who buys all this stuff?’ he wondered  ‘This one for example…’ he looked at a decrepit book of about a hundred pages with ancient illustrations and ornamented capital letters, written in an unfamiliar language.

“I see you are interested in the book of personal prayers,” said the salesman's creaky tenor voice as he approached Greg, his mousy eyes drilling through thick lenses.

“Hmm… Greg inquired, what is this language... Hebrew?”

“No... young man, it is written in a much more ancient language, in Aramaic.”

“Aramaic?” Greg whistled, sizing the man up once more.

"Young man, huh?” he thought, ‘I'm not that much younger than you are, buddy. I just look after myself' while aloud he said: “Who knows Aramaic nowadays? Only some linguists.”

“This book offers translations in many common languages: English, Spanish, French, Chinese and Russian.”

“Let me look.”

The salesman pulled the book from the stands and passed it to Greg. The binding on the book was worn in places and smooth to the touch. Greg opened the pages at random. He looked through several prayers in Aramaic abracadabra as well as the translations. Phrases appeared old fashioned but at a glance looked readable.

“How much?”  Greg closed the book and looked at the price label on the reverse side. 

“Thirty dollars?” He shuddered.  “Why so expensive? In any church, you can buy a psalter for pennies”.

“You won’t buy a book like this in a church.”

“Meaning?”

“Psalter contains common prayers. In this book, they are individual.” Seeing Greg's perplexed expression he continued, “It allows you to communicate with individual saints and angels.”

“What do you mean?” enquired Greg.

"Well…How can I explain it more clearly? ... You see, prayer is... When a believer wants to communicate with the Lord, his belief is like a communication medium, like a cable that provides an internet connection. Prayer is like credentials. It opens a communication channel and sends the believers’ wishes to the listeners. But psalter prayers are public, that is, your request is sent to a general queue, and you don't know who'll receive it. But in this book, prayers are individual. This one, for example, is addressed to Anael, this one to Agathon, this one for Barakiel and so on. Here it indicates the specialization of each angel," he pointed to the bottom of the page.
For example, Bariel is an angel of intelligence. If you need to solve a difficult equation, or, write a computer language compiler, or prepare for an organic chemistry exam – you need to address your prayer to Bariel. If you have a stomach ache then direct your prayer to Baruchaval. Now, get a load of this…using the prayers from this book your request isn't placed in the general queue, it sort of gets in the back door bypassing a queue, straight into their office so to speak. That way it gets more specific and immediate attention.
A grin of skepticism twisted Greg's lips. Noticing it, he added… 
“But if young man you don't believe, well you're just wasting your money. If you don't believe then it is of no use to you.” Greg weighed the book in his hands, pondering.

“Ah... I see you have some sort of a request.  Am I right?” 

“I am not exactly sure how to tell you,” Greg kept weighing the book in his hand as if evaluating the worth of its supposed wisdom in pounds thinking ‘Rather not a request but a claim.’  For some reason, he felt like telling this man what was in his heart. After all, he was but a random person. It didn't matter whether he knew or not.

"You see…” Greg took a deep breath as if before stepping into a cold water, “My story is unremarkable. When I was young I met a girl. But we got together just as I was leaving the country for a new job. I'd already signed the contract so I had to go. She was from a well-off family, gentle, and a little spoiled. I couldn't take her into the unknown so I asked her to wait for me for a couple of years until I got settled and could come back for her. But everything went cockeyed, I couldn’t fulfil my promise and she married someone else. I don't blame her. If she were my daughter, I would advise her to do the same. After all, the female’s corridor of opportunity is not so wide.  But it's not about her you see. It’s about the entire situation” Greg looked at the man for some sign that he understood.

The salesman listened without interrupting.

“You must be thinking that I’m…No, I've met other women and now I'm married and have children. But it’s all somehow... I can 't…”

“Forgive?”

“No. What is there to forgive? I repeat, she did the right thing. I liked her like this: gentle, reasonable, practical,” Greg cleared his throat as if something was stuck in it. “Yes, I understand everything... Of course, we’d been together for only a few months, and when we broke up, I was still in a state of euphoria. Hormones and stuff. And who knows how it would have progressed as time went on. Besides, the first thing I had to do was to realize that there was a blow to my psyche. At the time though I wasn't up to that. And now, all this has come to the surface, and I can't get away from the thought, from the feeling that everything is going somehow wrong, everything is meaningless. That everything would be better with her... that she was taken away from me in a somehow odd, unfair way. So I want to know... ask... there… above...” Greg pointed his finger to the ceiling, “what the hell?!” Greg smiled, “I don’t mean to call for a devil. I just want to know why was this done? For whose benefit? What was the point, what was the intent?”

Seeing bewilderment in the salesman's eyes, Greg added

"I mean, why did I meet her at that moment?  Why when I was leaving and nothing could be changed? Why didn't I meet her before, or why did I meet her at all? It’s like people up there,” he pointed at the ceiling again, “teased me with a carrot.”

“Yes,” the salesman nodded his head and coughed, “you definitely need this book. Although I can't tell you who specifically handles these issues. I would start with celestial archivists Metatron and Raduriel. And then, you have to figure it out yourself. So, are you taking the book?”

Greg nodded, handed the salesman his credit card, but changed his mind and paid in cash.

<center> *** </center>

Once home, Greg gave the souvenirs to his wife, while holding the book under his arm.

“What's that, she asked?”

"It's nothing. I just liked the look of it.”

"You're always bringing home junk. What’s it about?”

"It's a book of prayers.”

"Prayers? Have you gone bananas? Why do you want that?”

“I liked the pictures.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Dollar twenty,” Greg lied to stop further questioning.

His wife waved her hand dismissively and with a reproachful look, mumbled, “You're always dragging home shit.”

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<h2> To be continued ...</h2>