She always prepared for the day she called Jam Day. Tidied up all the nooks and crannies of an old apartment, scattered ghosts into the smelling mothball cabinets. Wide-open she opened the windows, blinked her eyes at the white light and, as always, did not recognize him. Books stood on the shelves, closely, as in a tram, whispering in different languages ​​in a whisper.

Then from the trunk they got dresses, also similar to ghosts, only the dead. She tried them on in front of an old mirror, stopped at one of them and wore it with all the solemnity of the moment.

And, finally, she sat at the desert table, lit a cigarette through the longest sandalwood mouthpiece, and listened to the street noise, in which for the last few years she has seemed to be blowing the pipes and horns.

Then she went outside and headed straight for Tverskaya Boulevard. She preferred Tver - prim, portly, aristocratically slender, with an officer bearing of maples - the rest. Passing to the middle, she sat down on a clean bench and pretended to doze, half-closed her eyes.

A lot has been said about her eyes at the time. They were compared with forget-me-nots, and with cornflowers, and hell-knows what else the field flora. High school student S. decided to compare them even with an orchid, for which he was interrogated with addiction, after which it turned out that he was “not happy” about botany and he has no more idea about orchids than gymnasts S.

But what none of the former admirers did not notice was the insight of her gaze. However, x-rays were not yet so well known, and her look simply had nothing to compare with.

So, she turned on her X-ray unit at full power, and there was no passerby whom she would not have considered to the most secret giblets. Of the many random characters, only one type was interested in her - a rare one, but not completely extinct even in modern times.

The type of pereparka is a virgin, about eighteen to twenty years old, which has already learned how to conquer acne, but putting its own timidity on the shoulder blades will not be solved. Apparently, because timidity is the noun of the same damned, incomprehensible, feminine gender.

This type has changed a lot. The former stooping nervousness, poetic aspirations, quotations of other people's wisdoms and a cowardly look from under their brows are gone. The current virgin has become aggressive and the look of it, sometimes it’s impossible to distinguish it with the naked eye from the crowd of lucky ones who have already dipped their feathers in the inkwell of a lie.

But her gaze was armed enough to unmistakably identify the poor fellow in the most oversized parrot at the Tver vanity exhibition.

Seeing this from afar, she sighed deeply and, rising from the bench, resorted to an ancient trick, against which there is no protection. Taking a step or two from the bench, she lounged and leaned against the nearest tree.

The game, which at that moment passed by (believe me, the moment was always calculated exactly), could not have noticed the poor old woman, or simply ignored her dumb call for help. The poor old woman, cursing in her heart with young, barracks-like words, sat back down and froze to the next victim. And the unsuspecting, lonely hopeful hope passed its fate with the usual for such cases blunt obedience.

There was no case that her expectation was not crowned with success. When this happened, she let out a tired twitter to bring herself to the house (“You are so kind!”), Apartments (“We have such broken steps!”), A table (“No, I just wouldn’t let you go without treating myself.” ..)

Than? Lord, well, of course! After all, you have not forgotten, reader, that you are invited to Jam Day!

The table, magically covered with a tablecloth, overgrown with pleasant little things - cups, saucers, spoons, sugar bowl with tongs, etc., etc., et cetera.Finally, a childish bright palette, apricot, strawberry, apple, pear, love-spelling flashed on the table in rosettes ... And the spoon turned into a brush, and a bright watercolor of the conversation lay down on the silence smear after the stroke.

She knew how and loved to talk. She mastered this art long ago and enjoyed using it, honing her skills year after year. Needless to say that an innocent child, somlev after three cups of tea, was no longer in a hurry to leave the stylish old woman with the old witch’s mouthpiece, in which the very modern look of the Kazbek was smoking.

She did not touch dangerous topics. Sliding, like an idle boat over a dacha pond, she rocked her companion on the waves of her understanding and friendliness, in a wise and safe calm. Then, quietly glancing at the clock, she quietly pulled out the cork, and the conversation flowed out slowly, svilas at the exit into an ordinary water flower.

Finally, unexpectedly for him and quite according to the plan for her, the doorbell sounded, and she went to open it, dying as usual before the little miracle that was performed by her hands for the umpteenth time ...

Behind the door, to the guest’s complete and panicky amazement, there appeared a girl, created by nature as a measuring gauge for words like “pretty”, “charming”, “sublime” and so on. The guest came into the room and, waiting for the third tea device to appear on the table, sat down as if nothing had happened. It was evident that this house has long been familiar to her and loved as a relative.

From where, you ask. And really, from where ?!

Everything is very simple. Or do you think that virginity wanders around the City only in the guise of young men? By no means. A week earlier, an old woman became ill with a heart on the boulevard - and here's a kind girl, rewarded for her generous deed.

Tea drinking lasted three. If stiffness was planned in the first minutes, it quickly melted in the next cup, stirred with an antique silver spoon.

The hostess inconspicuously became the background against which the Youth who had come to visit shone. May God grant everyone such a background - which, like a title, pushes the Boy von Man into the arms of the Girl von Woman.

Take a little bit of timidity, a little spring, a bit of alien wisdom and your thirst. Mix it all with a silver spoon, and you only need to add a drop of jam to make the sweetest dish of First Love.

So it happened.

When it was time to leave them alone, she went into the hallway talking on the phone. Sometimes Col. N. became her interlocutor, sometimes her sister, occasionally even high school student S. with all his pretty ignorance. And many others. They spoke softly, completely silently behind a continuous locomotive horn. But sometimes she managed to reach them.

Then she came back when she needed her children again. And gave the conversation to reach the floor, finally warming up before the whole world ...

Coming one by one, they left together. And just the same together inevitably returned. For the addition of jam. And yet - in search of the roof for the first comfort (oh, this apartment question!). Where, if not here, they were looking for this warm nook? Maybe in your kitchen, between the refrigerator and stove? Or on the mezzanine, between a broken bike and a bunch of old wires?

Well, I do not! Dudka! They came there, in the ancient room with blackened furniture, where a tidy wise old woman was busy behind the wall. And there, on embroidered Chinese bedspreads, they touched each other, causing the first ripples on the surface of the lake of sensuality ... And the mirror reflected their glowing bodies ...

And on the other side of the mirror an old woman was sitting in a rocking chair and carefully looked at the children. At such moments, her eyes lost all of their X-rays and became simple cornflower-blue lakes - deep and transparent to the very bottom.

The clock struck twelve, but the Cinderella's dress did not turn into rags, and the ball continued with all its inaudible waltzes and minuets. And the old pimping smiled, and the long mouthpiece would be damn like a magic wand if it were not for the smoldering old-fashioned Kazbek. © Mr.Kiss, One Hundred Splinters of One Sense, 1998–1999