(excerpts from the story of Victor Barkov, "Winter will come ...")

Igor emerged from under the blanket and sighed deeply. Outside the window, winter twilight insisted on a poisonous smog. The snow flakes, like frozen night moths, melancholically furrowed a peaceful space. And in the apartment was a nostalgic aroma of oranges and pine needles. The indestructible smells of the New Year's holiday ...

Having ejected from the bed, Igor squatted for a good half hour, wrung out from the floor, bent in different directions and jumped, trying to reach the ceiling with his elbow. Even stood on his hands. Then he went to the bathroom and took a contrast shower. The plastic sprinkler pulled out water streams in an excessively wide range, and it was threatened to replace it with a week. But, as usual, all hands did not reach. The new mixer stubbornly stuck on the washing machine, resembling an angry Cobra, and the nickel-corrugated hose was snaked around like a ring. Over the past three weeks, the vector of ikorevoy life began to deviate from the usual direction. True, the changes were more concerned with the inner plan, but something, of course, broke through without. He resumed physical activities, drastically reduced his alcohol intake, and began to think more often about objects and phenomena that had seemed useless before.

When leaving the bathroom, Igor collided with Olya. She slipped an indifferent glance over his naked body and independently proceeded to the kitchen. A bundle of hair on her head, intercepted by an old eraser, brought on the image of a fountain of brains beating from the top of his head. They had not spoken to Olga for the second decade. And quarreled, in essence, because of a trifle. Just did not stick something in their life together last months. Alienation accumulated bit by bit, small things and, finally, splashed out under a specious excuse.

They celebrated the New Year in the "Retreat". Igor ordered to close the billiard room from the visitors, remove all unnecessary from there and decorate the interior as it should be: with fir branches, garlands, balls and other holiday attributes. Gathered a company of best friends and acquaintances. The rest of the audience had fun in the next room, behind the wall.

When the guests were pretty drunk, the uncontrollable process started. Someone danced to dance with everyone in the main hall, someone brought from there freshly acquired friends. A former colleague in the newspaper, journalist Dima, lured Igor the key to his office and retired there with some pretty blonde. “She is fond of literature,” - he justified his request to Dima, - “and I want to read her own poems to her.” “And the sofa is the most necessary element of literary communication,” Igor specified. But he still gave the key, so as not to spoil relations: Dima, in friendship, sometimes pushed the hidden club advertisement in a newspaper.

In the office a couple disappeared for a relatively long time and left him drunker than before. Dima came to the creative excitement, pestering one or the other and trying to convey something to their consciousness. But he was dismissed as a pesky fly. Then Dima knocked two bottles on each other and loudly addressed everyone:

- - Ladies and Gentlemen! Just a minute attention! Let me read you a good poem. New Year's. I finished it a few minutes ago.

In white dance light snow flies,

Heaven and earth sweeps

On your cheek the snowflake melts

Like a gentle kiss of winter ... "

Having recited a few more lines of his rhymed nonsense, Dima stalled. He chewed his lips, tugged at his nose, but never remembered the sequel. The listeners who were concentrating again switched to the feast.

- - Wait, it is written to me! - - Dima shouted in an offended way and began to tear his dyed blonde from the chair. She could barely stay on her feet, and everything that was happening seemed to her terribly ridiculous. She mechanically laughed at every word and movement.

Dima professionally pulled off her sparkling blouse fabric, under which there was nothing else, and asked not to swing. The entire back of the blonde was scribbled with a bright red felt-tip pen found in a gigantic office. The lines of the poetic masterpiece were curved and clung to each other like women in group ecstasy. Obviously, Dima recorded creative thoughts without interrupting the main occupation. And the position for this purpose has chosen the strategically correct - on the waving breasts it would be much more difficult to write. The majority of the participants approved such a turn of events in the womb of the womb: all the diversity of the program. Only a few ladies were indignant for decency, however, they also listened with curiosity to the original presentation. And as if nothing had happened, Dima reveled in reading his worthless verses.

The most pernicious property of graphomania is that they cannot stop on time. When Dima brought the last visible stanza, he unceremoniously undid the "zipper" on the girl's skirt and, to top it all off, pulled off her panties. Poems continued on the luxurious plump buttocks, and the last lines, taking a vertical pose, perched on the back of the thighs.

However, in the soul of the blonde suddenly awakened dormant modesty. The girl began to slow down the skirt, and Dima was angry and actively opposed this, because he had not finished reading. The guests were not at all funny. Here on a noise from the hall some drunken man was dragged. Drunk, but frisky. He proclaimed himself a friend and protector of offended innocence. And, of course, immediately rushed into a fight. Dima would have had a hard time if his friends had not stood up for him, and then the guards came to his rescue. The brawl nearly swept the entire male contingent of the nightclub with an epidemic After all, the brave defender of justice was not alone either. Thank God, we got off the broken table and shards of dirty dishes.

Olya took the incident unequivocally, accusing her husband of everything. “Now I know what you do at night on your couch! - she screamed. - - You abused my trust! A scoundrel! ”She still could not do without theatrical scenes, even in anger. It was useless to justify - Olga did not want to hear anything. And really, how to prove that Igor never lay on this sofa with anyone together? He never cheated on his wife at all. Until very recently. Only here with that girl everything turned out suddenly and dizzying. As if against their will ...