When I was in the last class of school (Oh, long ago, the USSR was still almost alive), I liked one girl - from a parallel class. I seemed to like her too. But there were a few nuances – we were really overwhelmed with studying and her dad was a puppet at our school. Therefore, our communication was mainly reduced to communication at shifts and school discos and other extracurricular events (which were a lot if honest). All of the attempts to organize a meeting over the weekend came across “an unrealistic amount of lessons” and “blind, we live in different parts of the city” (both were true, but the hormones told me that this was a false statement and we need to fight). On the one hand, I tried to hold myself in my hands, and on the other hand, I continued to show persistence. At school discos, we were all closer to each other, not eating pioneering decency (of course if her dad wasn’t on duty). When we met, we not only talked, but also held our hands. On the electives after 7-8 lessons, solving any archaeological difficult problem in physics, we sat down together and exchanged views and smiles - which for students of different classes is not achievable during the course of the school day... In short, platonic relationships developed gradually, and some parts of the body insisted on recommending the brain to come up with how to organize sexual life. And the brain plagued with hormones. So I got my first kiss. And now, at the school discotheque, rough hands climb where pioneers and komsomolists are not.
...And at this moment her look becomes thoughtful-dreamingly determined. And she slightly stood away for a long time and stared me in the eyes. He said, “We have to do one thing. Are you not afraid?”
And although at this moment I was overwhelmed with contradictory emotions - enthusiasm, fear, anticipation, fear, licking away and a lot more, my dry throat presses out: "Yes, in the sense of no, in the sense of what I should be afraid."
And she takes my hand and persistently pulls me somewhere. And in front of my blurred gaze, in addition to her slim figure in front of me, the pictures seen in the illegally mined magazines flash... When my eyes gain focus, I suddenly see before me a zavocha – the father of my girlfriend. And I hear her confident voice: “Dad. I can’t continue like this, I don’t want to hide anything from you. I like Vitaly. I want to meet him. I want to spend time with him on the weekend, not at home locked up for lessons and preparation for the university! And after school, I also don’t always want to run home as a sprinter to report for every minute between school and home!”
When she finished, I understood from whom the artist took the image of Mr. Pomidor for a children’s book. No, he must be honored, he did not explode and did not raise his voice. He clearly impressed only a few words: “No. The point. Finish the university. You will eat. Do what you want. Before that you are my child. Vitaly is free. You are home.”
Everything was convincing and tough. The evening was over. But it was not the end. The end came for me in the morning. When I approached her on a shift and tried to hold my hand and I heard, “No Vital, not now. All in vain and useless... I need to be alone and think... If your father has such a reaction to you, then present him with my boyfriend - a secondary student is not even real. It will kill. I have to think about it...” And I went to my lesson.
Before getting acquainted with the term "friendship" there were some 15-20 years...And the dominant thought in the head: "And when did you just have time?"