Eye of power

Do you consider that there is some predetermination, a destiny? And what to do if you don’t like your destiny? If to reconcile - that for what? For what do you lead that life you can throw out without sorry? Who is a man, and who is a woman? How do you distinguish them from each other? And what is a family? And if you can answer this question, can you answer a question then, “Why are they a family?” Is it the same as what you have in your life and what you want to have? And if it is not, then why? Is it now because you believe what the Eye of power knows better than you?

Novel-reflection "Eye of Power." The woman left for the village to hide from the incredible life with an intractable deformity. She lives there with simple worries, gets to know and makes friends with her neighbor. Now she has someone to talk to on her side. But it is stale and trite because it is stale and trite. After all, it is repeated constantly - you cannot escape your fate. And one day, fate knocks at her door. She falls in love immediately, as it should be, when it comes to fate. But what if the mirror and society repeatedly prove that happiness is not for you?

Although it does not have a name, the village, which is chosen as the background of the story, tells its confession; through the reflections of one of the heroes, the story of a real village is told. The main plot and the main characters of the book are the results of comprehending many years of work with the problem of self-acceptance - and real memories and actual events - all the stories in the book and the people mentioned are real, - are called, in their symbiosis, to contrast show that what is accepted for the ordinary, often frightens, if you look more closely and vice versa, what seems abnormal, unnatural, unusual, with the same attentive look, turns out to be quite ordinary.





1. At first sight



- Doesn’t she have an arm or a leg?

- No, she has everything.

- Is she humpbacked?

- No, she’s not humpbacked. She has everything to live a normal life. It’s more of a moral dilemma.

- Then there’s some bullshit problem.

- No, she has a significant problem, a very significant one.

- But it’s a physical defect?

- Well, yes.

A conversation with the readers.



It’s dark, and sweat is sliding unpleasantly on the skin. The familiar dark corridor, with sticky walls which seem rustling presents ahead of me. For some reason, I have to go there, and I do. I turn, and then the smell of someone else’s sweat hits the sense of smell, someone’s stroking voluptuous breasts, rough hands are sliding on the inner thigh...

In a cold sweat, I opened my eyes. I dreamed again that I was a woman. I never even knew if I liked the process of intimacy in this nightmare.

I am 29 years old, and I work as a literature analyst, sometimes writing articles in newspapers and magazines.

I’m looking at the alarm clock now. The set-up was at eight, half-past nine already, but it didn’t even think to alarm. Of course, all things in the house make their own decisions, regardless of anything, even their direct responsibilities.

I live in a wooden house nearby a city, like, I’m supposed to live in the city, in a small apartment on a high floor. After the publication of this book, I’m supposed to move to a house in the countryside and till the old age to talk about the written works, to quote the phrases, build projects, which are hardly destined to be fulfilled, and to sneer at everything because of boredom. My grandmother left me the house, and I thought it was good to move there right away. So I did it immediately.

I wake up early in the morning, and sometimes my conscience makes me do gymnastics or exercises. I still can’t understand the difference between them, and no one, even gym trainers, whom I know, can explain it. Then, I wash my face, it’s not interesting, but it would be inconsistent to write that I have breakfast. Surely there would be some picky reader or a teenager in a good mood reading this book with a friend for finding faults at everything, and the more and wittier mistakes one may notice, the higher the authority would rise, in their own eyes. Yes, and I was like that in childhood. I was able to laugh at any work, whether it was a newspaper or a book; even the appeal to children in the Bible seemed very funny. Well, if this book can bring any additional benefit to anyone other than the concept of the basic idea, it will only fill my heart with joy.

Now, I get dressed, have breakfast-no, I don’t have breakfasts like most people, especially if I get up early-and only do I prepare to accept a new day.

I look out the window or walk down our street. In winter, as in any village, we have it beautiful and snowy; if it snows with flakes, you can’t help but remember all the stories told in childhood and even earlier. Whether by the wind and trees, or clouds, there are now few and far ordinary grandmothers who read fairy tales to the grandchildren. Basically, romantic children read them themselves, and already at a reasonably mature age, but for some reason, it all seemed familiar to them and heard somewhere. Most of the spring, we have it on the street slushy, snow mixed with water, and the picture appears very depressing. But in summer, or very late spring, when the trees bloom all over the street, and the music of bees with the honey melody pours everywhere, we have it very beautiful. Autumn probably is supposed to write about how colorful it is in its golden form, but for me, it’s just a feeling of sadness and the end of something bright. Perhaps the climate is to blame. Maybe autumn on a tropical island wouldn’t cause so much discouragement. In general, even without me, it is written so much about the beauty of autumn. Every author, a poet, or sensitive person, pays tribute to autumn, shyly thanks to its abundance harvest, for the fact that they won’t die in the winter is inevitable paganism.

Only people of my grandmother’s age live on our street. They are always busy older adults, busy as if ashamed that they live in the village. And kind homeless dogs, but there aren’t many of them in the villages, as usual. Angry dogs are only in the farmyards. I think it’s because the homeless ones tell them how good it’s out there. Because in the village food of pets and stray dogs is not very different.

For some reason, there are grimy children only in villages. Funny but dirty. I’ve seen that in all the villages that I’ve come across on my way.

Of course, there is the forest nearby, kind and familiar from childhood. There’s always big strawberry growing there.

Although, have you ever noticed that the largest strawberries grow in cemeteries? Haven’t you been straightened out by hissing unintelligible adults, not bothering to explain why not, and for whom it grows there? You can be sure it tastes right the same as anywhere else, only that it’s bigger; I’m talking about it because I can say with certainty that, even as an adult, you’ve never torn it there. But if among the readers there is such who are still thinking this is quite a reasonable action, then admit it, friends think you’re a little weird.

So, I walk down our street to the forest’s edge, where the schoolyard is adjacent to the gardens. Now they begin to build houses there, insanity, in my opinion, but people tired of the emptiness of the soul inside, who’ve come here, don’t think so. The village has a legend—quite a dangerous and warning one. But already, just a very few people remember it, and it doesn’t make interested almost anyone. But it continues to act and will act because no one knows how to neutralize it. I’ll tell you about it later, in detail.

Since my childhood passed here, I have known incredibly fabulous places in the woods, very close to the edge but hidden from the stranger’s eyes. I often sit on my favorite slope and read or draw, for which I have almost no ability. But I can tell you about any story in any genre. Frankly, for some reason, I’m too lazy to do such long work, but sometimes I get pleasure from such stories when I tell them to someone. There was even a time when I wanted to have a younger sister or a brother, to have a number of free ears, where I could pour all my literary delights. Fortunately, my parents left this wish only at the proposal stage. I have no idea what would have happened if I could convince them of the need for this event. The lack of free ears prompted me to write down my ideas. So my literary growth began.

There, in a hidden place, I met her. Dazzling and beautiful. The Woman. Not a fake, mannered female. Not a flirtatious, cunning female human-animal unit, which is considered to be, for some reason, real women. I always laugh when I hear that. You can call a female a woman, afraid to offend a stupid creature, but you will never confuse them, especially if you are familiar with a woman. However, very few of you, readers, know at least a couple of women. Just moody drama queens are often called bitches. But those who are real bitches are almost always women. And very few people remember that the bitch is a female dog and not a capricious, confident woman. Also, few people know that “nice” a long time ago meant “foolish”, “senseless”, it’s from Old French.

So, she was sitting there, looking sadly and thoughtfully in front of her. Just looking at her, it became clear that in her situation, it’s almost impossible not to be sad. I felt sorry for her. But at that moment, there was nothing I could do to help her. However, her image sunk deep into my mind. It couldn’t be otherwise. She saw me, and she was embarrassed. Because beautiful creatures like her don’t like to be caught in such moments, and her deep eyes were already filled with tears. My smile, of course, was of little consolation. She sat far enough away from me, so nothing kept her from getting up and leaving. So she did. And I still had many pages of an interesting book.

***

I get up early, and I don’t know why, the hope of a miracle, the fear of oversleeping something that could change my whole life at once. I lie in bed for a few minutes before I get up and listen to the birds chirping outside the window. Fortunately, the window of my room overlooks the garden, which everyone in this village calls the vegetable plot. All the gardens here are called vegetable plots.

I have a beautiful and well-kept garden that I take care of personally, without letting anyone come close to it. I like it so much when bright flowers bloom in spring and summer; it makes me think everything is possible, and I live in a fairy tale. I love berries. I have some trees in my garden that give fruit early.

In the morning, I always do gymnastics for flexibility. Men like flexible women. It gave me a lot of pleasure to see how my gait became more graceful and elegant after a few months of gymnastics, and the movements got plastic. Friends even told me that with this set of exercises I could make some money, probably, it’s possible, it’s designed on my own, but I don’t want to; I have enough things to handle. Maybe later, when my life won’t be so obscure.

After the gymnastics, I shower; I love the smell of perfume. Gels, creams, shampoos, their subtle aromas also take me to a fairy tale. Then I rub my body with a gentle oil so that the skin would emit a subtle odor and be silk to the touch. Nature didn’t very generously endow me, I have slightly rough skin, but no one guesses about that. I mostly hear compliments. I’m 29 years old. I have a feeling that old age is near. Unless things change... but it’s so annoying to wait, especially when you don’t know what to wait.

I work as a designer. Whom else? With my passion for bright colors. Sometimes I take orders for interior decoration or shop windows. No one has ever complained. I guess I need to be proud and decide that I have impeccable taste. There must have been something in my childhood that kept me from doing that.

Then I renew my nails, if necessary, and style my hair. That’s all. Hello, day. I have breakfast, usually, coffee and a berry dessert. After, I work a little or sometimes read and watch TV, but very rarely. The village doesn’t have the benefits of civilization, and if you don’t adapt, you can go crazy. There are two TV programs; you can get seven, a couple of radio stations. There’s the Internet only if the provider has a satellite connection.

And I go for a walk unless a neighbor (a man or a lady) runs in. The lady asks for something to help, always noting that she would have coped herself and that while men are never found out by asking, she also lives alone. The work is always not so difficult that she would have coped herself; obviously, she’s just bored and wants to share the gossip of our street. The man, for some reason, believes that discussing his romantic exploits with me is the best pastime. He probably thinks I’ll understand what a treasure is walking beside me.

I walk in the forest since it’s not far from us, right behind our street. I have a secret place there. As a child, I was able to win it from those who knew about it, make them silent, and hide it from those who didn’t know. I hadn’t had and still don’t have a friend who I would want to talk about it.

Usually, in summer, I wear lightweight pants and bright t-shirts.

In the secret place, I cannot hide and not smile at anyone and be sad about my woes as much as I want. Until I get tired of it, and I decide to do something. These decisions make my situation a little easier, but they don’t change it. If only someone knew. Oh, if just someone knew! Of course, my problem for someone may be the cause of suicide, but not for me. It’s probably a test I need to pass. And I’ll pass it... but anyway, I’m despondent.

My thoughts almost won fought me when he suddenly appeared before my eyes. He sat reading. On the slope, in my secret place. He was right about what he was supposed to be. I was so impressed by what I saw that the thought of my problems immediately flew away. It was like being struck by lightning. It never occurred to me that I would see anything like this. My confusion was probably clearly written on the face; he noticed it. He must have felt bad. I would have. I had no choice but to get up and leave quickly. It got way painful somewhere in my chest, so breathing became difficult. He looked at me as if I didn’t have that terrible flaw that spoils a woman’s life. He looked at me the way I always wanted to be looked.

I was still shaking despite getting home; apparently, so much adrenaline got into my blood. It even occurred to me to smoke, but it was only a thought. Smoking spoils the complexion. I can’t spoil it. Therefore, after rinsing my face with the frozen rainwater, I always ice rainwater, it’s undoubtedly not cleaner in the cities, but in a village, it makes sense. I only have to lie in a hammock and indulge in chaotic thoughts that have stirred up this Writer in my poor head.



2. Acquaintance



I know her a little. I mean, I hear about her a lot. She lives in a house recently sold by a widow who moved to the city. The charming house, coming to it, there is no doubt how feminine the hostess is. Bright, very neat, almost a fairy-tale garden is laid out around. But it never occurred to me that it was her. That she’s is so much beautiful. After reading a book or a chapter, I usually go straight home, but today... I wanted to go to her, talk to her. Maybe I should ask her out. But would she go? Would she understand? Wouldn’t she consider me a bully? But, anyway, it didn’t scare me much. The person who saw her eyes, hardly, at all, could be frightened of anything!

So, when a familiar street showed me her house, all I had to do was to speed up my pace. She was lying in a hammock in the garden, hidden from an inattentive gaze. What can you present to her? Presenting flowers to the owner of such a garden is foolish. Candy? But if she watches weight, which she probably does, she won’t appreciate the gift. I’ve always had difficulties with gifts, especially women’s ones. You may present to the relatives some cream or something fragrant and sweet-scented. But to the friends and men, you can almost always present a CD with the music he prefers, or a book, or tobacco or cigars if he is a connoisseur. But women are just confusing. They are glad to some things that I can accept only with a sad polite smile. And quite calmly accept a gift that you give from the bottom of your heart, after running for it for a few days a distance equal to a good match. As a result, I stop at candy. Not a big deal; she always can treat her acquaintances, if so.

“Hello,” I say, standing behind the gate, holding a box of chocolates. I went to the nearest store to get it and came back.

“Hello. How rude to lie. Excuse me for a moment.”

She got up easily and went over and opened the gate. “Come in.”

Her yard resembles a fairy tale; between flower beds, light paths are lined with large stones. She invited me to a table in the garden, took out a beautiful dinnerware set and offered me a cup of tea. My heart sank because I couldn’t help her. But I need to know if I’m wrong, and putting the candies on the edge of the table, I tell her quietly:

“You’re a beautiful woman.”

The teapot shook in her hands. She looked up at me with her magic eyes.

“What?” she asked quietly.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” I repeat louder.

“You’re making fun of me.” She sits up and purses her lips.

Another one, in her situation, could start hysterics and kick me out.

“I’m not laughing. I’ve never seen such a beautiful woman before.”

She shuddered again. Lower her eyes. How gracefully the shadow of her eyelashes fell on her well-cared skin!

“How did you notice? I mean, how did you even see me?”

“You’re hard to miss. Maybe you just met people who were busy with themselves, that’s all. One look was enough for me.”

Her tea’s good too. With some herbs, the smell of which always reminds the childhood, but as soon as you know the name of this herb and buy it yourself, from the smell of the childhood remains only some weak spirit. And you try and try to reproduce it, so it’s like you’re bound to it, you buy this herb. Until at some friends you taste the tea again with the taste of childhood. And trying to guess the herb’s name that you take yourself, but they told you it’s nothing of the kind, and they say another name, and you all begin anew until some friend pities you and says that his herb was coming from somewhere in the mysterious country, then only you calm down. Indeed, the herb from childhood should grow in a mysterious country like Japan or Thailand, well, at the worst Tibet, where, in general, very few herbs grow. Because we never want the herb, evoking some magical memories, to be called basil, elder, or melissa. You want it to be called something like Luchua, or Savaya, or any other fabulous word of unknown meaning. It’s also desirable that it wasn’t there in any dictionary, but you are sure, someone’s told you exactly what it means “Dawn” or “Eye of power” (I know, I also have at home, “Eye of power” and “Dawn”).

“Yes ... thanks.” She looked down.

“Don’t be sad. All can be fixed…,”

“That’s terrible. How can you say that? It’s impossible to fix!”

To feel her skin was charming, and I touched her hand, didn’t want to remove it to keep longer the feeling of tenderness.

“It’s fixable. Just give me time..., I’ll try to help you.”

For a moment, her eyes become angry. Perhaps, she’s already got such offers…

“You misunderstood me.” My smile melts the ice. “I will help properly.”

“I’m sorry.” How touching She is! She apologizes for even having a look. Even for thinking badly of me. “I’m sorry, I just hear it so often... how good it is to be... myself with you.”

“You’ll only oblige me.”

“If you hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have made up my mind.”

We talked until late at night! It was past midnight when we said goodbye. I had to go home. Sometimes I could see old ladies and their children looking out the windows. There will be talks tomorrow, and they will woo her for me. Well, at least they would stop looking askance at her. And the idle mouths would leave me alone.

At home, I saw her hands, lips, and eyes so sad and beautiful for a long time. I couldn’t even work. I had to quit attempting to write anything and switch to sleep. The days here promised to be more entertaining. If only tomorrow she doesn’t start being eaten by embarrassment, and she doesn’t begin to lower her eyes at the meeting. There’s one hope for a woman’s mind.

***

My God, my face is burning! Already in the house, I was overcome by a light but intense laughter on the bed. Who do I thank for meeting this Writer? He saw me; how did he do it?

Delight filled me all evening. And even in sleep, the smile never left my lips. I thought the morning would never come. The days will be much more enjoyable now; I don’t know how the Writer will help me, but he is a man, he will come up with something! I did not doubt that! I had rainbow dreams, probably the first time for a very long time.



3. Again at first sight



It seems like the morning looks into my house, first of all. My house has four windows in one room. Three are on one wall, and the fourth is on the sidewall. The sun in the morning looks first in the first window, then in the second and by two o’clock passes all four windows. Waking up, you can always determine the weather and the approximate time. I, as a writer, am supposed to want to describe this wonderful romantic rubbish about the beauty of the morning. But I can’t, at least not now, I’m finishing my article on wolverines. According to one very serious magazine, they are fashion animals, and there are minimal writings about them. The order is expensive, not a lot of work. But the rest are just bored to write about these fashionable animals.

Today I was awakened by a rumble. I open my eyes, and what do I see? One of the most beautiful phenomena of nature – a thunderstorm! Invariably, almost everyone associates with the storm some hopes. The sound of rain and thunder equally enlivens the sights of sceptics and mystics. The most romantic work people want to start reading or writing this way: the sound of the rain was singing its song; lightning was illuminating the sky in the color of silver Indigo..., (I have such a book, and if you want, you can read it). After this beginning, we all believe, something interesting will happen further. No one thinks that the rain is wet and cold, and dirt and cold drops hit the legs or bottom of pants. Not to mention that it’s possible to catch a cold or worse.

So, this morning the rain loaded up.

I still love this village so much because unusual phenomena occur frequently and are taken by the locals as the most granted. No wonder, before the people came, mages had been living here. Maybe it makes sense now to tell this legend? It’s short and won’t take long. When should I tell it to you, if not during a storm? So, it’s pouring outside my window, I’ve already finished my morning routines, and I’m sitting down at the table nearby the window, with a cup of hot tea (there is nothing better than to watch thunderstorms or snowfall, - and for me also star falls! - sitting in a safe, cozy, own home) and remembering what I heard about this village. Legend says there’s no way out. There is a city not far from here, and you can always go there and try to break out of the circle of the forgotten curse. But no one would not end their life here. Everyone comes back here.

Even at old age, who resists returning long and desperate, no matter how awful it is, dies and is brought to be buried here. It applies mainly to those who were born here. Who’s lived here for a few years can escape, and then only if you observe certain precautions. Before, there was just wood, impassable and very beautiful-the kind that’s described in fairy tales and books. Here lived a settlement of wizards and witches. They never came out to ordinary villages. It was a very ancient tribe; they watched the weather, harvesting, and led by some of their life. Sometimes someone would reach them, and they would heal them. And then civilization came to there. They liked the place, and they stayed there. Then the witch tribe cursed the land and all who were and will be born on it. If you wish to be here, you can never leave. The tribe went further into the forest. I don’t know anything more about this tribe; no one has ever met it to talk about it. So, my grandmother was brought out of the forest by a blue-eyed high magus—some small things like that. And people lived and still live there. And there’s something seductive in the air.

Visitors note this village; locals try to leave it or build from it a similarity to the city. But civilization doesn’t take root here. So exists a wounded village that people try to turn into a city. And this struggle is visible to an attentive eye. Recently, they began to cut down a birch grove and build houses. Obviously, someone liked the place very much. Again, one liked it. And here people will live and give birth to children. That will take the curse. It doesn’t sound scary. It acts scary. Ah..! I guess I don’t know the story in detail because there is another point. I can’t explain this elusive line, where it starts or ends, but the curse is beginning to spread also to some visitors. These people change their temper; it’s possible to notice that some local inhabitants’ attributes appear in their tempers. And they, too, have no choice but to become attached to this place. But since few people remember the legend, nobody talks about it, and it isn’t taken seriously; maybe those it was told to don’t believe it. A civilization can’t fight the curse anyhow other than unbelief. But it, apparently, so objectively exists regardless of belief or disbelief. I hope all of this hasn’t scared my readers and hasn’t led them to despondency? If the locals are not afraid, you have nothing to be scared of.

It was clear that the downpour wouldn’t end till the evening by noon. I didn’t want to leave the house, but I wanted to see my dear Friend. Although, maybe she had her plans for the thunderstorm. Women are all a bit of magic, and, for sure, she has a way that should help her, but the ritual should occur in a thunderstorm. Telephones, of course, didn’t reach the village. The phone was just at the post office and the offices that the town never needed, and they lived their separate lives. I have a cell phone, but I don’t know her number. And still, if there is a ritual, then to call is awkward. Then the only solution I could think of was to wait.

***

Even sleeping, I could hear the rumbles of thunder. I couldn’t believe it was a storm. But as soon as I opened my eyes, it became clear that the rain had come for a long time. The air smelled of incomparable freshness. I love thunderstorms; I always think something interesting should happen in a thunderstorm. I so wish I could see the Writer. The presence of the man encouraged me. He only once saw me, without noticing my incomplete! The lady-neighbor knocked on the door I had to open, leaving in the middle the unfinished businesses. She needed help covering the cucumber garden bed, and you never find out a man by asking. I had to follow her with a sigh, save the garden bed. Again, there was a talk that real men came to an end, but to be alone is still inappropriate, and the solitude is nibbling me, and she lives alone..., smiling politely, barely managed to get rid of her. When I got home, I just wanted to slip under my blanket, to snap the pine nuts, but I knew how to cope with myself, and a couple of hours was for gymnastics. I always wanted to run out in the rain, like in the commercials and the movies as they write in books. But I don’t particularly appreciate getting wet. Moreso, it isn’t enjoyable when the water takes a breath away, and you can’t breathe when cold and painful drops beat you, and it never brings neither the freedom you expect nor the unity with nature. But you easily can catch a cold.

There was no hope of getting out of the house, and anyway, writers have a habit of writing in this weather. Perhaps, natural discharges of electricity enhance the creative splash. All I had to do was to get to work, too. I should admit, it was friendly and easy to work. And it was very cozy to watch and listen to the rain outside the window.

In the evening, again knocked to my gate. I immediately thought – Writer, quickly jumped into the yard and opened the gate, I had to take a shot. Such one that I wanted to howl. Black, amazing eyes were looking at me. It was the end. It was death. My heart ached so much that it hurt to breathe. And the owner of the eyes smiled.

“Hello, miscalculated at all, may I stay here to wait out the rain?” the voice was also the most beautiful one, which also was to be expected, although…, this is quite unfair, that’s forbidden to give such a voice to such eyes!

“Of course...” I heard my voice. I wanted to say - you can stay here to live! But that would only put him in an awkward situation. So, I remained silent. I look at him in silence. Lord, I want to touch him..., no, this is stupid. He’ll wait out the rain and leave. But why? Why did he have to come to me? It was a cruel stroke of fate. He looked at me politely, with a calm, confident, most beautiful smile in the world, and walked into the house. I gestured for him to sit down. There was a magnetic force coming from him. I have been able to yearn alone for so many years because I have never met anyone who disturbs my peace. I only had to not look for such meetings, and here-if he was also called in my life by Writer-only with his appearance, life began to change. But it isn’t kind! I offer tea..., a nod. A smile. Gratitude. A warm, polite glance. He would never look at me as a desirable one; I could hardly bear every word, I wanted to cry, but this would embarrass him.

No way in the world I would want to disappoint those eyes. My eyes fell on his hands. He holds with them, someone..., not me. He’ll never hold me. No, it’s not love, it’s just..., I’m lonely, and so I’m making it up. I know I’m lying to myself. Peace will never return to my heart. I’m pouring tea with trembling hands. I’m trying not to let him notice. Where has he come from to this village? Asking…

“Lost. I overslept at my stop and got off here. And the rain. If not you…,”

Politely smile, his voice is the sweetest music. He’s touching the candy with his lips. I can barely keep from moaning. He’s just unreal; he’s so beautiful. And all I have is to look at him and dream..., no storm will throw him in my arms…

“The downpour won’t be over until tomorrow, and... maybe the roads will be washed away...” I hear my voice again.

He seems confused.

“What am I going to do? How long?”

“Maybe ... a week….”

He curses softly.

“Do you have a hotel?”

“No... I can...” I’m trying not to blurt it out too quickly, so I’m even speaking through three dots, “Let you stay for a week... in one of the rooms... if that’s okay with you.”

“That would be great. I don’t want to embarrass you..., of course, I’ll pay.”

“Don’t worry about it. Anyone can get in such a situation….”

He was insisting on payment for a long time. As a result, we agreed on a shared table. He was satisfied with the room. The last thing I wanted was to dig myself in, and I neither wanted to leave. Of course, I had to leave. But the work wasn’t also coming to my head. I didn’t want anything but to be near him. To look blankly at the screen until the evening seemed to be the most entertaining.

The only thing that got me excited was the idea of cooking dinner. I cook well, and here the soul was singing, I needed to prepare for a reason, for..., how to call him? I can’t even pick the words up. His name caressed my ears. He had a small real estate agency. He was perfect in everything. He lived in the city. Alone. He had no relatives close to him, and he hardly saw those who lived in the same town. He had no pets. And here he went for some rare seedling. He took the bus because he didn’t know how to get there by car. Not far from our village sell such seedlings. I must say, these rare bushes grew in my garden, and if he’d take one, the greenery wall won’t get thinner. He will take it, along with my heart.