I had a circle. White on the outside, brown inside, old as Lyudmila
Gurchenko, but very dear to me. It gave me my first love when I was in school. One terrible day, six months ago, I dropped this bowl and broke it. In the Chlam. In other words, in small pieces. I had to squeeze. Drink coffee more carefully.
It was a preamble. The story itself began on the days when I deprived the Shabashnikov brigade of the prize. for flying and cracks. They were upset, took it on my chest, and went to beat my mouth. Without knowing it, I calmly drank coffee in the car.
Opening the door to knock, I found myself in front of a bunch of angry men, led by a healthy tractor driver, who cried out loudly, twisting himself before the fight:
You are shit.
At this point, I was probably a little psychic and slightly shaken my hand. But that was enough: my sticky cup of coffee, which I held in my hand, broke, sprinkling everyone with coffee.
The workers, who did not know that the bowl was holding on the spools, silently took a step back. The tractorist, left alone, quietly burst:
But I am shit too. We are all shit.
He also retreated a little.
The fight did not take place. The question was exhausted.