Pride

The metro wagon.
People were few, but the seats were all occupied, I sat in a hug with my faithful selfie and dreamed.
On the station entered the pop, the usual pop, thirty years of appearance, no more: from head to foot a black redhead, a beard, a large heavy cross.
Following him entered a woman with a breast baby in her arms (pop did not see her)
I naturally jumped up, said, “Please sit down,” took a step forward and pulled through the pop to touch the woman’s elbow and point to her free seat. But suddenly, the pop wholesomely and powerfully took my hand to the side and with a special church bass loudly and exhortingly said to the whole car:

What are you? Don’t have to, I can stand up. Then sit back!

People around were shaken.
I, despite the attack of laughter, still reached the woman and sat her in her place.

After a few stops, Daddy and I met each other’s eyes and smiled.
He approached closer and with his special church bass quietly said to my ear:

Sorry, it didn’t work well. If I were in a civilian dress, I’t even think you’re addressing me. And thank you.
Me for what?
For helping you see pride in yourself. I’m proud, she’s all to blame.
Well, okay, but we’ve raised people’s mood.
And it is true.

The priest was about to go out and stretched out his hand to say goodbye to me, and I answered and said:

- Since you are so concerned about pride, I will probably not kiss your hand, I will limit myself to a handshake.

In response, a special church bass whispered ordinary human laughter.