1 banana + 3 kiwi + 13 strawberries

        So, my name is Jean. And I love the special ice-cream served specially for me in cafe “Шоколадница”. I guess this is enough information for my opening story. Let’s get started:

Chapter 1: Ms Kinda-Williamish

         Singing many times the refrain from the song “Lucky”, I somehow managed to swallow at the same time my ice-cream (served specially for me in “Шоколадница”, of course), and, admired my new bought gloves. The gloves were long, till my elbow, and I can make garmoshka from them – in other words, nothing could have disturbed my happiness in that morning. Until...

         The bell in the front door suddenly began to rang annoyingly loud. I, with some other people who was drinking and digesting their food few seconds ago, stopped, and stared at the door. A brown haired boy, amazingly tall, was standing there (If in the group “30 seconds to mars” was a second vocalist, that boy definitely must be him!).

         The boy hysterically (and I mean the direct meaning of HYSTERIA) was rushing between the tables in MY SMALL CALM QUIET COMFORTABLE CAFE. His eyes suddenly stop on me, I mean on my table. He rushed through and took MY GLOVES! “What the hell?!” – I thought to myself. As no reaction was followed by me, he wore the gloves and with no mercy (towards my gloves) tried to cover up his elbows with them. Then he took my “Marie Claire” magazine to cover his face, jumped on the sit next to me, lowered himself down as though to hide. I tried to swallow the piece of ice-cream still stuck in my throat since the beginning of this story, cleared my throat with tea and wanted to throw at him thousands of questions, but the  front door bell began to ring madly again.

         Now a brown haired girl was standing there. Tight ponytail, formal suit, zero expression on her face – my first impression of the girl was: wow, don’t mess around with her. She came in quietly, unlike the previous “guest”, examining every single table. I notice that she actually hold more than 3 seconds on the “Marie Claire” magazine (hold by the boy), but then turned her head to other direction for search. With hesitation, she walked out the cafe.

         “She gone?” – asked the boy, who was still holding my magazine.

         “Gone.” – strangely, I started our conversation with wierd question: “was that your girlfriend?”. I felt I was blushing from my stupid question. The brown haired boy smiled:

         “No. It is actually my guard, believe me or not.”

         (I thought he would say that she is his sister, which was a banal answer. But guard?)

         “Your guard? How old are you, boy??”

         “Enough to drive car” – he looked around one more time, making sure that he is save. Save from his guard? That’s wierd.