and Miss Zen. A story with an epic end.

My friend came from Voronezh last night. He shaved, threw his bags and dragged the tea into the kitchen to chase. Sleep, he says, not in one eye, until I tell you how I arrived, I will not calm down.
Beyond his face:

"Ele had time to get on the train, he threw his bags on the run, himself barely walked through the platform with his nose, but he had time. I rush through the hallway and pray that my lower shelf be occupied: I hate them, I always ride up, so that no one touches me. Prayers were heard: on my shelf, a boy of ten years, full, cheeky, cared for, licked. Next to him, his mother handbags him. On the other lower shelf sits a 20-year-old girl in an old sweater, trousers and bright blue shades. I read and I get zero attention. I caught the woman’s look and said, “Please.” I am not sorry for the shelves, but for decency I could ask. She whispered and turned. She pulled the bag next to the girl, began to break down and said in an ultimate tone, "Child, I'm going to sit here, next to the child, don't you mind?" She also fell the top.

“Contra...” was a voice full of some extraterrestrial zen and calmness.

The lady rushed for a second, but recalled and continued to break things.

"I have to keep an eye on Tarchenko, suddenly what will happen to him, and sleep from above for a long time. Let us not argue and change.”

“We will not change...”

I thought she would now begin to say that she specifically booked a place in advance, that it wasn’t her problem and bla bla bla. But not. The girl just turned and lay her back on the lady’s bowl, like a pillow, not leaving the book out of her hands.

The lady suddenly ripped the bag, freeing the seat, and Miss Zen lay down on it in all her height.

"Skotina minor" - a woman clearly knocked through and, putting the bag on the table, went up. From there, she soon very successfully dropped the haircut, which hit the girl right in the forehead. Miss Zen, not distracted from reading, dropped her haircut on the floor.

For the first two hours of the journey, the lady cried, cried, demonstrately inconveniently descended from the shelf to wipe out Mishenko's socks and adjust his heat exchange, stretching and sticking the vest. But soon, realizing that Ms. Zen wanted to put on her torture what the universe gave her, she set up and fell asleep.

We spent a few more hours in relative tranquility and even tranquility. I met Mishka, divided him for a couple of parties in a naval battle, into a fool - normal, in principle, the guy turned out to be, only in love. Miss Zen read, separating herself from the outside world.

The Dinner. The lady woke up and began to grieve at the fact that her son, God, was dying of hunger. Misha, who recently tortured a couple of sausages with me in the paste, stunned his shoulders. As my mother said, she was really hungry.

Just then the fate caught Miss Zen into the bathroom. When she returned, she discovered that she was left with a small corner near the window, and the rest of the seat was fitted with containers, a thermos and a Mish. The lady, intercepting her absolutely phlegmatic look, still thought that, finally, she had stumbled, so solemnly stated: "The chair is below, and we have the full right to sit here, we have not occupied the whole shelf!“”
Without any confusion, Miss Zen passed to her seat, settled there comfortably and turned her gaze into the motionless infinity.

At the end of the dinner, Misha, fed so that from his ears, decided that it was inappropriate for others to starve, and shared with Miss Zen a boiled egg. Strangely enough, she took it... And then the mother, having decided that “there is nothing to scatter the foods on any shell,” grabbed Misha, landing that back, and grabbed Miss Zen in her hand.

At this point I had thought that the wall of restlessness would collapse, but again I was wrong: Miss Zen brought the egg back to the table and wiped her hands on the lady’s shirt with the words “All yours.”

What started there... The lady was waiting for something to blow through a bubble of indignation. Shaking her hands, she took the solo arias "Voice hammer, ugly, premature!" In her tirade she poured out as a soul, choosing Miss Zen as the primary cause of the misfortunes of mankind in general and of her own in particular. “Because of people like you, nothing is ever going as it should.” Anger covered her eyes, her brain boiled, and when control over herself was finally lost, the lady whispered Miss Zen, so that she attached her head to the wall, glory to Kthulhu, though slightly.

She cried and silenced, looking forward to the reaction.

“The FAS!” I thought I could no longer endure that.

If Miss Zen had started scandalizing or loosing her hands, the image of the Most Immortal would have dissolved forever in my mind. But she did not disappoint.

Slowly, but inevitably, she leaned toward the woman, as if she was going to say something to her ear.

And tasty, wet, she slipped from the soul, from the forehead to the forehead, through the eyes, lubricating cosmetics, leaving a glowing salivary trace.
It was crazy, Carl!

...The effect was crushing and instantaneous, like from a tranquilizer: the lady silenced and began to touch her cheek with her fingers... Then she crushed Misha, threw him on her shelf and was squeezing to wash.

Miss Zen wiped her mouth with a towel and soaked the corner. This action was already meant for me, and, God sees, I did not stand up and stumbled.

During the rest of the trip, the lady did not say a word to her. Also silently they and Misha left the wagon at their station.

And Miss Zen went deep into the book again. Her whole appearance said that she had left this reality and would not return soon. I did not stop her.