The big finger.
It was a long time ago, in the early eighties, but I remembered...
My brother and I visited my mother in Komarovsky (no, not in the fact that
“For a week, until the second...”), returned to Leningrad. Immerse themselves in a local subway train, consisting of three old wagons, such now no longer anywhere, bought out the port wine. To the hub station, where it was necessary to move in the night ambulance to Leningrad, a few hours. Summer, early evening, half empty wagon, port wine, snacks, rushless conversation, the wheels cheerfully knock. Forests, fields, bridges across rivers (the wheels knock on them in a special way), provincial sand bars... We go... Well.
An hour and a half later they stopped at the next station, a small one, not even a normal station. I looked out the window, and there, right in front of me, stands a long-legged girl in a light dress, and the already low sun so behind her illuminates that the picture is simply of indescribable beauty. The dress is short, but also enlightened by the sun, and the girl is young and very cute: a young nymph in a golden orel. Around the concerned aunts with bags, the men of the countryside are half drunk, and she stands edak independently, the type of meeting someone. In fact, of course, just came "to the train" - simple peripheral entertainment: passenger trains go twice a day, in the morning and in the evening, the evening train - an occasion for the local Aborigines to "go out into the people", the time of gathering youth. Then the girl raised her eyes on me. And I, admired, couldn’t stand up and... Here’s how to write? “Have you shown her a big finger?”
Loudly sounds. I begin to understand the writers. You want to tell about high feelings, bright emotions and beautiful gestures, and the words lead...
In short, I showed her a hand, squeezed in the fist, with the thumb removed to the limit. She is beautiful, she is beautiful!
The girl slightly turned away, pretending she didn’t notice anything, then looked at me again, then tried to swallow up, at the same time her sparkle face began to fade in a smile and, finally, looking at me, she really smiled. Open, grateful and happy.
The immaculate picture behind the window became absolutely perfect and complete: the girl smiled happily to me, and on her face read: "Yes, it's me! Yes, this is what I am! Thank you for noticing!” The train touched me, my brother whispered to me, and we drove another half cup.
The happy moments. We don’t notice them, but sometimes, many years later, we realize that they were. Flooded by sunset yellow perron, proud of its young beauty, the girl left on it, the joyful tapping of the wheels and the living brother of Kolka next to him.
(c) lartis@g