told a acquaintance.
I went to the clinic for a gun certificate (he is a hunter). You need to go to a psychiatrist. I go into the office, I see: my grandmother is seventy years old, a kind of God’s puppy in a white cloth. I already forgot when the last time in the clinic saw a doctor in a capsule, but not the point.
“Sit down,” bubbles the grandmother, writing something on paper. I sit down. I put a runner on the table. I sit. and silence. It is written by man. I quietly chew the rubber (I just smoked, well, so that the smell less...). The grandmother, not leaving the papers, asks:
Do you know that chewing a chewing gum in the presence of a woman is inappropriate?
I apologize, bump something about smoking and the desire to reduce the smell, take out the rubber and stick it into a cigarette pack.
Grandma also, without looking at me, without breaking away from the papers, takes my runner-up, writes something and comments:
It is easy to be influenced by others.
I was slightly squeezed:
Sorry, but you said it yourself.
Grandma (but not raising her head and continuing to write):
Prone to aggression.
I have a breath in my stomach from the indignation of the sperm, but the inner voice whispers: “Silence, fool!” He is not a fool. We sit. and silence. Three minutes. 5 minutes. My grandmother, without tearing her eyes off the papers:
It easily falls into depression.
I begin to think that I am not about not getting a certificate now, I will be picked up with flashes, I am stuck and I decide to keep silent even stones from the sky.
We sit. and silence. Three minutes. 5 minutes. Somewhere minutes after ten, the grandmother finally raises her head and with the astute-harmful look of the old lady Shapoklyak throws me:
Go on, the hunter.