It was in the year of Edak... Although what a difference, the point is that jeans were a shortage at the time. I came to my youth business in a glorious city.
and Vladivostok. This city, by the way, is a port and on the local market, if the mints are not noticed, you could buy these most branded jeans. It is expensive, but there is a deficit. I looked around and went to that market.
Walked between the ranks, on the shelves of course no jeans found, but his interest shone. After a while, a grandmother comes to me.
The Gypsy is not a Gypsy, but a shirt and a coat with jackets on her is ten pieces. Among them, I think not only jeans, the refrigerator can be hidden. He looks me in the eyes and asks if I need jeans at a similar price. So clear the pen, after them and came. It makes my mysterious signs, typically - observe the conspiracy and take some container. Getting out of his folds new in a transparent pack of pants, then beech, jeans, on, say, throw, will it be okay? I pretended, as if it was normal – one hundred and fifty says, as if I had already gotten in my pockets. We both knew the price. While I got the money, she put the jeans in a bag and rolled back into the folds. Money is worth thinking. Then she made dreadful eyes and shouted, “Militia, let’s run!” The package fell into my hands and into some cracks. Well, I also broke somewhere - so that the dream would not be taken away.
While in the tram, everyone could not admire their jeans.
I will pull them out a little because of the sinuses, look at the firm's seam or label and be happy. Oh, I think, now as not rough, but on the dances all my girls. I was so happy until I reached my relatives. There the bag spread out, the pants got, and there is not the jeans, but the jeans. The trousers are alone. They just divided these jeans by the motto. And it hurts me even to cry, because the second half of the money is still not, even if I find through an announcement in the newspaper the happy owner of this second half. In the evening, my cousin came out of work.
I threw my head on his shoulder and poured out insults on his hometown. He looked closely, knocked on my head with his index finger and thought. Although, he says, everything is not so bad, if reasoned logically.
Tomorrow we go to the market together. What was not so bad, I thought all night, but apparently with logic I had problems.
I went to the market and he left me at a coffee shop. Wait, he says, I’m now sinking into the crowd. Probably not for an hour. He comes, dull, but pleased and his jacket on his chest is melting off. Sitting on the tram, we go.
He flashed the lightning and got his jeans because of his mushrooms. Two brushes and two brushes, all as required. Truth without a package and hell like shit. He says, wear it. No, well, of course, I was all in gratitude, promised as soon as I came home, immediately send money. And only he looked at me and said, it's your, say, jeans, you paid them yesterday, I didn't spend my money a penny. So, I ask, does that lady have a conscience? Regarding the conscience, he says, I don’t know, but in that logical chain the final changes from the one who shouts first: “Militia, let’s run!”