You are a modern man, a modern girl. We met with you in the spirit of the times, in one network toy. Exchange ICQ. Got out. You're funny and smart. You talk well with you. Even talk well. You understand and understand everything. You rarely, really, talk to me. You are young and energetic. You study and work, and you have no time to chat with an old man, although you were born when I was not even a pioneer. Suddenly, it turns out that you have a photo, but I somehow did not guess to look at it. You are very beautiful on it, and it is made well. You told that you need this to immediately sort out men who have only one thing on their mind, and for some reason immediately counted me among them. But then she calmed down, and we agreed to meet, take a ride through the rainy spring city, only we and the jets of rain and lanterns flying towards us. Something did not grow together that day, and the question was no longer raised. You have one incomprehensible trait, something almost intangible that you want to find out. This is personal, this is a problem, I think I can find out and tell, it can even help, but, of course, not in ICQ.

In life, you are a hundred times prettier, and, it turns out, I never saw me until my personal meeting on a snowy autumn day. You are just as sparkling and sociable, intelligent and sensitive. You do not distract me from serious conversations from the road, which I still lose, and we are leaving for a spare point. You are sitting in a cafe at a respectful distance from me, and I’m comfortable with you, only embracing couples put pressure on a strange couple, but you don’t notice them. We flirt confidently and boldly, talking about nonsense, reading between the lines and listening between the letters. You do not ask questions, everything is clear to you. Having discussed the main thing, we are voraciously weaving, we measure phones. You lick the tip of the tongue of my old machine: "Mmmm: Oooh: What is your big!". We did not notice how five hours passed, and that it was dark and you can go home. You promised to bring me your other, even more candid photos, but mine could be viewed right at my house, and you agreed to go to me.

You watched all my albums from and to, you were there, you were trusting with me. The longer we lay on the floor and sat on the couch, you lost confidence more and more. You began to ask questions requiring an unequivocal answer: “What are you doing?” “What do you call it?”. But only by calling me to check if I arrived at the house normally, after seeing you off, you asked that you didn’t dare to ask in your eyes: “Do you play with me like that or do you stick to it?”. You received an honest and detailed answer, but you nevertheless agreed to meet the next day.

The next day you were in sports pants and even took videos, but we went to inspect my albums. You were lying next to me on the unfolded sofa, you were so close, so close to me. I looked at you, admired and enjoyed. Your hair that was almost black with reddish tint smelled differently that day. You were not like that. You asked the exact questions, jumped up. Then, at first, you briefly but gently answered my kisses, then you did not pull back when my hand first accidentally, and then, as it were, accidentally touched your gorgeous breasts. You are constantly going to go home, then to a friend, then engage in sports. But every time you succumbed to me and stayed. You were boiling. You were torn, and wanted to help you. Help came, and you exploded and splashed out. You ripped off my clothes, and I did the same. You are in a strange way, according to some fantastic law of non-Euclidean geometry, you were immediately inside and around me, I penetrated you, to receive you into myself, to merge with you. Even when the two of us who had lost power had fallen beside you, you still passed through me with some kind of your super-astral body.

You left. Although you were no more than a meter away in our space, in fact you were already far away. You understood something for yourself.You knew that you were not like everyone else.