I raise my hand and take a wet handkerchief from his palm, trying to extend as much as possible, stretch those moments when our fingers touch. It turns out quite a long “handshake”, but he does not rush, does not make attempts to pull out his hand or push away. Only somewhere in the depths of attentive eyes sparkles of tenderness appear. Or is it just my dreams?

“Thank you,” I wrinkle a piece of cloth in my hands, as if hoping that he will give me a piece of courage and determination that his master has so much, “I ... understand, I can't take it anymore!” I love you ...

“Quiet,” the palm, still wet from my tears, gently but inexorably pinches my mouth, turning the confession ready to be pulled out into an inarticulate moo, “Don't say anything.” Believe me, it will be better for everyone.

“For whom is it better?” The better ?! ”- for the first time in all the time I want to grab him by the collar and shake the answers out of him -“ Who better from what I can't say “love” ?! And who will be worse if I still say? Whom ?! ”

But I look at his pale face, at the blue lakes of his eyes, in which tenderness (yes, she is still there!) Mixed with sadness, pain, and - I shut up. Do not I know: really, it will become worse. We live in a crazy, cruel world - and he, this world, will not accept us real, will surely try to bend, break and remake for himself. My parents will not be the first to understand and will not approve of the daughter’s hobby for poor young men from a disadvantaged area: you can expect a visit from a couple of very old guards to “clarify the issue”. This is not a show for you.

The guy lets me go and turns away. Both are silent, while the silence that has enveloped us is not made alive and mysterious, like a magical beast. And then Oleg, still not looking in my direction, begins to read poetry:

Be my magic silk wonderful

Embroidered with gold rays and nights of shade,

And the haze of clouds, and the blue of heaven,

Him I then without regret

Before you could throw on the ground,

So you do not soak your feet.

But I have no such wealth.

My dreams are all that I own.

Sorry - I'll throw them at your feet.

But for God's sake, put your foot more tender:

After all, you step on my dreams.

“The poems of Ulyam Yeize are not mine,” he looks up at me, which now has nothing but tenderness, “This is all I can give you now.” I have nothing more: I cannot even write the lines myself. Everything that I have - I stole from someone else.

- And if this is enough for me? - I try my best not to let my voice tremble.

“No, this is insanely small,” he approaches, almost pressing me again into the wall, “Too little to cost anything in this world.”

Resentment suddenly flashes in me:

- And the rest ?! - I try to push it away with myself with both hands, but this is the same as pushing a concrete pillar, - Did you also read poems with them ?! Yes, the entire female half of college you have visited the bed! And I ... I'm too good huh ?! Fool!

Oleg looks at my frantic attempts to beat him with a barely perceptible smile, and, waiting for a pause in the accusations, he gently, almost weightlessly kisses on the lips, knocking all my fighting enthusiasm and making me forget what I was going to blame him for.

- No one ever read poetry, ever. So as I am not supposed to know the poems - except maybe obscene, - he smirks, - And as for the rest ... You know that I am a bad boy. So what is there to be surprised?

Before I can get angry again, he continues without a smile:

- They all wanted only one, and that is what they got. Sex without problems and commitment. But you and I will not succeed like this ... - for a second it seems to me that he is going to kiss me again, but instead the guy pulls away, - Although, of course, I am not an angel, but I will not break your life.

Oleg retreats even further and as if transformed, once again becoming a strong, self-confident head of the youth gang. On a beautiful face - mocking contempt, in the eyes - cold.

“You have to go home, good girl.” This is not the right place and the wrong time for people like you. Now I call a taxi - and bye-bye.

The next day, Oleg did not come back to class again, and a day later our teacher, with ill-concealed relief, announced that Oleg Zvyagintsev decided to pay his debt to his country and went to do military service. Voluntarily. The class was buzzing: even if it was dangerous, like a grenade without checks, the guy managed to become our attraction, almost pride. There were heated discussions, when did he manage to owe his country so much. There were opinions in a whisper that sometimes a year or two in the army is better than five or six - in places not so remote. And only my alarm sounded in one head: “Voluntary.” He left because he wanted to. And he didn’t even say anything to me.

I don’t remember the following days: later my parents told me that I had a nervous breakdown. The doctor who examined me recommended a complete change of environment in order to remove from the environment all disturbing factors as much as possible. The father's decisions were made quickly, and the decisions taken were implemented even faster. And now, after a few days, I fly to study in England. How much it cost, I don’t know: at that moment I was almost not worried, and London and “that world” sounded almost the same. Somewhere in the depths of consciousness, the last remnants of reason humbly hinted that behaving because of a guy with whom there were only a few kisses and even fewer conversations was the height of stupidity, and instead of an elite college, someone would like to go to elite mental hospital. I didn't argue with that either. Yes, I guess I'm crazy, crazy, sick with the whole red head (underline the appropriate). Well, to hell with it.

A few years have passed, and now I am returning to my native city, for the first time since I left it, shaking off the ashes of my first, almost childlike love. The stupid love of a kind, homely girl in a really bad boy. England ... there is something in this country that helps to forget the pain left at home. A few years in a foreign country, among strangers - and instead of a silly girl at the exit, you will receive a specialist with a prestigious diploma and job offers from several large firms. However, I have a job: my father’s work has expanded significantly over the past years, but I am still an heir. So let my dad live ten times more, but it was not possible to get out of the imperative demand to return home and start to get into things.

The car took me straight to the headquarters of the company, where the warning secretary immediately said that even if Mr. President had a visitor, he left clear instructions to immediately take me to it. I shrug my shoulders and direct my feet to the “Older Bear's Den”, which has hardly changed in the past time (as I used to joke as a child). The father, as always cheerful and cheerful, sits at a wide table and treats the guest's coffee, sitting with his back to the entrance.

- Olenka! - Dad easily jumps up and I literally drowning in his mighty arms, - It seems that just a month since I was visiting you in London, and I missed you, not to convey. How did you get there?

- All is well. I ... - the words freeze on my lips, because the second man in the office also rises from his seat and, turning around, gives me a slight bow. No, it can not be...

- Here, docha, let you introduce one of our new partners. Oleg Zvyagintsev, the head of the Archangel company, is perhaps the best security specialist on the market at the moment. And in general, really dangerous son of a bitch. You'll see, if anyone can organize the first private military company in our country, it’s him. You will have legal interaction with its structures, and you ... Is everything all right?

Yes, my dad never distinguished himself with special sensitivity, but even it dawned on him that all his eulogy was flying past two, frozen like marble statues. Past the men and ... Read more →