Wash hands before... dream?
So. It “was that is called drawn“; anything special - so, the mediocre official, average years, average height... And however, and here the age, growth and even weight when to me forty, the son already practically grew up, and work and creativity leave still a lot of time “on themselves“. With me it is expressly benevolent, acquaints with friends, squanders money. That`s right. Without special enthusiasm, just correctly. Tells how wants kids and a big light drawing room.
For reference, my drawing room almost same, only a cloth of other color. And mine in the Tverskaya, and at it somewhere still, I do not remember. Almost I assume myself the hostess in this in common fictional paradise. And here we go to Belarus. A biker meeting, hurrah! do not think bad, at the guy simply of a hobby such: changes sometimes from “hamer“ to “golda“, well and drives - all right to whom does not happen. We remove a pretty two-room flat in the nearby town, quite expensively, by the way. The former teacher of literature takes an opportunity and tears up on - full - for four hundred dollars it is possible to live in the NY center days. But my hero does not stint, and already even not really with him it is boring for me. I do not describe the events outside number though much, I think, and it is interesting. I try to tell absolutely about another. And so. I begin to get used to “not in at all my taste“ to the character. And that, I think, here it is most and is: rich, dear person, not that these grasshoppers. Grasshoppers are my ordinary Men of Dream - young, poor, clever. And only I whether you know, a zapredstavlyala of the hostess of its adulthood, in fluffy slippers, all in cats and diamonds...
Bang! It... You will not believe. The boy leaves a toilet and... does not go to a bathroom! Yes, yes, you correctly understood everything - the representative of those, unfortunately, widespread subspecies Goma the sapiens whom mother in the childhood did not tell that after visit of all types of rest rooms usually wash hands... Approaches me, tells something. I in panic. To Moscow seven hundred kilometers and are not going to leave I anywhere, eventually! After the eighteenth hands which are not washed by my hero fatefully I take the sixth medicine of sleeping pill and under the pretext of a terrible headache I creep to sleep to other room. Interestingly, by the way, and I could learn so nothing, be in a peshcherka the combined bathroom!
And the trip, by the way, was successful. And I will remember kind the uncle all life, and thanks to it. Maybe he will wait everything - the destiny, and, maybe, they will give birth to children, and they will not be told about hands too.
From there are morals. For some reason it is necessary very much to be pleasant, and so it is not enough once and for all to lose. And happiness for which you wait, escapes and leaves in a palm only a scrap of peach wool from the tail. And all - is better to be poor and healthy and with the washed hands. And still as we it is not necessary to try “to be it good“ - all the same nothing from this will turn out - will burn.
And the hero of my story as you guessed, threw me. Just hastily kissed on a cheek at an entrance, told “we will phone“ and disappeared. It is the usual scenario, but everything is offensive - when you are thrown dirty hands. And, all right, I come back to grasshoppers.