- Volodya, - I report darkly, - I sat on a diet.
Why so sad? My husband responds sympathetically. Has it spread?
- Goat, - I bump and slide into the kitchen to cook a magical shrimp.
After 10 minutes, the man begins to smell anxiously.
and yes! I speak with challenge. I’m on a diet and I’ll eat it.
— Wait, — Voldemort waved, not ceasing to shake his nose. The same smell... mmm...
He blissfully falls down in the chair.
What is? I ask confidently. You like it, right?
I never thought I could have anything in common with a person who likes the smell of cooked celery. They can be tortured if the international convention has not yet prohibited them. By the smell, it must have been.
"You know," continues the husband, covering his eyes from pleasure, "when I was a kid, I was sent to my grandmother in the village for the summer. It smelled the same when she was cooking.
I swim in a smile, and he continues:
- She kept pigs and twice a day, she bragged them such a shit... One in one smells, direct nostalgia...
I stood and he opened his eyes and said enthusiastically:
Do you know what kind of pigs grow up?
and roar.
So how to live?