Gennady Petrovich first met her on the stairs. More precisely, "met" - loudly said: she just passed by, and all. Like dozens, hundreds, thousands of other female students each day of God. She went downstairs with a girlfriend and laughed like a girl, but Gennady Petrovich remembered her.

She had a long braid. For a while, Gennady Petrovich stood, bent over the railing, and looked at it from above. Spit to the knees in itself is a wonder, and a student of a college institute has more. Spit was chestnut and thick as a vine.

It was at the very beginning of the school year. Then, every time he met Glash (he nicknamed her to himself), Gennady Petrovich looked after her, convincing himself that he was admiring the braid. In fact, he tried to make out the pink cheeks, the smile and the puffy wave that reared the fabric on his chest.

Brown-haired Glasha was the black sheep. So, in any case, it seemed to Gennady Petrovich. The art institute was filled with spectacular femme fatale women who looked like exotic dolls with nylon instead of hair. To be yourself was considered vulgarity, and the female art elite diligently constructed herself from colorful rags, metal and paints of all colors generously smeared on physiognomy. Glasha was alive, too. She was either not painted, or painted so that she looked like a newborn against the background of fellow practitioners. She dressed normally, almost childishly, and behaved in the same way. Glasha was not a gray mouse at all - Gennady Petrovich's tenacious eye caught both the smooth proportion of the face, and the tasty bitterness of the moist eyes and lips, and the contour of the bends under her jacket, but she seemed to be a mama daughter, a provincial, a schoolgirl from an old movie. There was a bow in her spit, and her lips were pink, like from jam or ice cream. She looked like a child, even though her body was quite adult, and her chest was probably of the third or even fourth size. Gennady Petrovich sometimes imagined this breast - with large nipple halos, pink and shameful, as if peeped through the slit of the bath - and above it a tender, tender face with pink cheeks.

His Glasha was from another time, from another world. Glasha from the wilderness. Such Glashi still lived in the provinces, made braids, obeyed their mother and did not fuck until marriage.

In October, Gennady Petrovich was summoned to the authorities.

- As you know, Boris Anatolich Galaktionov died, the kingdom of heaven to him. He left homeless students. You will very much oblige us, Gennady Petrovich, if you take one of his girls to you ...
- Glash? - asked for some reason Gennady Petrovich.
- Glash? No, not Glashu, and Dash. Dasha Garfunsel. Exceptionally talented girl, I tell you. Exclusively. We took her out of the competition. Our youngest student, but also ...

Gennady Petrovich sighed, forgetting that he had baptized Glasha Glasha without asking her. Of course, he agreed, complaining about the lack of time.

A couple of days later they knocked on his class.

- Yes, - he replied, and suddenly stopped.
- Gennady Petrovich? - There was a silvery childish voice. - Hello! I am your new student, Dasha Garfunsel.

“Not Glasha, but Dasha,” remembered Gennady Petrovich. - “Ha!”

- Well, uh ... Dasha, hello! ... Let's get acquainted? You mean Dasha, yes? - He spoke unnaturally and cheerfully, crumpling paper in his hands.

Dasha looked at him with her big eyes with a bitterness. They were brown and drowned in eyelashes, long and thick, like the Soviet doll Masha.

Having coughed up, Gennady Petrovich took her folder, laid out the works on the table and looked at them for a long time. When he turned to Dasha, his face was pale.

- Hmm ... Well, Dasha ... Dasha Garfunkel ... - he muttered, unscrewing the button of his jacket.

He did not know how and what to talk with her, and he was worried about his first exhibition. Dasha-Masha-Glasha from the wilderness was, apparently, not only a beauty and a black sheep, but also a rare talent, and this finally knocked Gennady Petrovich off track.

However, by the end of their meeting, he found a common language with her. He suddenly felt that she did not have to be someone, but you could just be yourself, like walking or in the country. A day later, Dasha looked at him trustingly as the children looked, and a week later she followed him, and it seemed to Gennady Petrovich that they had known each other all their lives.

It was the strangest couple in the world. Dasha became attached to Gennady Petrovich quickly and spontaneously, like a prikormlennaya dog, and he just attached to her. They spent all their free time together, and if they were in different places, they continuously called each other and sent text messages. They talked about anything, and they were all equally interested - and art, and the everyday life of the hostel where Dasha lived, and Gennady Petrovich’s dacha, where he often took her, and everything in the world. Even at the institute, they wandered together, and Dasha at every shift ran to Gennady Petrovich, not at all embarrassed by the other students.

She trusted him recklessly. He became for her a friend, an authority, a close friend, and anyone; he replaced her at the same time with her father, whom she did not have, and her friends, while remaining a teacher. Despite her friendliness, Dasha was lonely - both because of her age, and because of what she was all about, in general, with her knee-length oblique, quiet, unobtrusive beauty and sincerity, which has long been walked by the capital's residents vices. She came from Siberia, from a small town in the Amur region. In a sense, she was not at all naive: her speech was intelligently correct, even too much, and this was something childish, old-fashioned, but terribly sweet; she was well-educated — better than most students — she could talk to the most intricate topics, and Gennady Petrovich soon began feeding her thoughts of suffering alone, and Dasha ate them with greed and appetite.

He called her the Amur tiger cub and Rapunzel:

- You are not Dasha Garfunkhel, you are Dasha Rapunzel. One of these days your scythe will be put on the list of monuments of federal significance, he told her. - You are responsible for her criminal and civil liability!

Her hair was her punishment: thick, shiny, wavy-fluffy, chestnut with copper and bronze, reaching almost to the floor, if they were dissolved, they required a long daily care. Dasha taught Gennady Petrovich to comb them and braid them, and Gennady Petrovich ran after that to jerk off, throwing out a sweet tickling swelling from his closeness to Dashin’s body.

Once he was summoned to the authorities again.

“Gennady Petrovich,” the bosses looked at him searchingly, “how long can it go on?”
- Uh ... what exactly? - I did not understand that.
- Just don't! Do you know how old she is? Do you know We just did not have enough scandal with minors!
- To whom? - deafly asked Gennady Petrovich, even though he already understood what it was about.
- So, my dear, I have no time with you in cat and mouse. He has the third bloom, you see. Although you, Gennady Petrovich, are both honored and all that, but if someone sees again how you lick her, you will fly out of here, like a cork from a bottle, you understand? And consider this a humane move, because you are supposed to be put on trial in a good way, but in the preliminary for such tricks. Understood or not?
- How dare you! How dare you throw mud at a clean, talented girl who is better and more talented than all of you combined? - Shouted Gennady Petrovich. He was shaking with noble rage. - On every pure, human need to hang a dirty label! They got used to floundering in shit, and smearing others there, right? Yes, that you vomited from your words on your shitty paper! ..

He was pounding when he left the waiting room. Seeing nothing around him, he walked, as if on rails, to his office.

There Dasha was waiting for him.

- What happened? Why are you like that?
- Ay, Rapunzel, spit and pound. The usual approach to the authorities with the usual consequences, - Gennady Petrovich twisted lips.

But Dasha rushed to him:
- What happened? She demanded.
- Eh, Dasha, Dasha, - he surrendered and flopped into a chair, - they accused me ...