Here are four characters. They live together, in the same house, and it is logical to start with who owns this house. Rather, with that.

She is over thirty, but having lain half her life in the refrigerator of her own loneliness, she has been preserved superbly. At dusk, they take her for a girl and force her to run away from obscene responses. She is clever, well educated, able to look after herself and does not strive to follow others. She, like many sublime natures, has a very big breast and, to admit, the waist in width loses to the zhopka with a crushing score of 1: 5. She has skin of the color of good Finnish paper and only the light in it can see the watermarks left by time. She is a music teacher at the City House of Scientists. There are two categories of people whom she always was not indifferent. The first one is colleagues, wearing glasses and beards, fat-eyed philosophers, each according to the Personal Unpleasant Habit - one constantly coughs into a scarf, inspecting it in the most attentive way, the other stutters and therefore tries to talk without ceasing. The second category is the southern beauties, fanned by the smell of kebabs and sinking with a skewer at the ready at the sight of its conservatory charms. It should be noted that she was not attracted by either of them. She treated the first group with even friendliness, like the other women, the second with panic fear, inspired by upbringing, prejudice and news bulletins. But she loved her children. Especially boys. Sitting closer to a cupid in a doll costume (how good it is to be a piano teacher!) She with pleasure admired her breast against the shoulder of a young talent, and if the scale in his hands suddenly fell off mixology in her hands with natural major, she squeezed her hips in a sweet cramp so as not to blur the reputation of the prim wooden chair. From these rare secret pleasures and materialized

our second character. He was less than twenty when he settled in her house. Now he is in his twenties, but the third trout that had just been exchanged is still crunching in his pockets with the freshest cabbage. Whether in this cabbage, or in any other, they found each other and now do not want to leave. He is absolutely unremarkable, this boy. He does not look like Rambo, even when he puts on a bandage hoop on unruly black curls. The glory of Gagarin does not shine for him, for he manages to sway even on the subway, not to mention the water and air transport. He does not win the fame of that actor out of porn, (well, you, of course, remember), with the shoulders of a boar and a sledgehammer of a good stallion. His little finger grows in his groin, however, it is rather sweet in taste and tireless in the game of love tremolo. The most annoying thing is that the glory of Gillels or Richter does not shine for him, because his hands ... Stop. His hands are what it is worth talking about.

Here is what Flavti writes about this:

“... she sees his hand, the continuation of a gentle male hand, covered with hair - the continuation of his denim shirt. He smokes, shaking off the ashes with a graceful movement ... she constantly looks at this man's brush and realizes that in front of her is not a boy, but a young man ... "

I would have written differently. Whatever be like ... "Oh, this October coup! ...". So I would have written.

Oh, this October 1917 coup, brewing semolina in future generations in the gene pot. These milkmaids with princely eyes! These miners with officer manners! Finally, these musicians, dear children of Zion, with the hands of the movers from Marina Grove!

One way or another, you have to agree that the character number two hands were even where it must be assumed that in addition to the keyboard, in which they made more noise than good, they found and continue to find much better use.

The character number three in this small family was Frederic Chopin. Fred lived in an old piano, and in the mornings they had to put up with his quiet, Polish-style cough. About Chopin say nothing. He and so everyone knows.

Character number four was their Difference-In-Age.

Let's call her Sveta. She was seventeen years old, she was an extremely mischievous maiden - self-confident, stupid and merciless. She lived in the mirror, and she loved to hit each of them early in the morning, until Love, who lived in this house on the bird's rights of a limiter maid, did not go through the mirror with a wet rag of her first smile.

That's all. Where is the story, you, my reader, are rightfully indignant. Indeed, what a story without action and plot? ...

Well, do not describe the right word, their gentle caress, interrupted by Fred's arpeggios and Svetka's cheeky performances! Do not, in fact, open the canopy over secrets that are so fragile and airy that my cynical pen takes off the cap in front of them.

Not.

Leave everything as it is. And I will turn Svetka with my magic wand into a flat-breasted tomboy and send it to a slut in the nearest disco. Let yourself sweat there for the glory of the other three - the eternal gymnasium student, the awkward teenager and the old Pole who joined their hands on the keyboard altar, released by the Red October factory in 1964. © Mr. Kiss, One Hundred Splinters of One Sense, 1998–1999