Honey gold

Maybe just such a day. One of those, when a city, usually gray and frustrated, is a old man who is pressed by shoes, suddenly throws for decades and feels young again for a short time. The sun, as if accidentally found a slit between the clouds-screens, poured on the sidewalk viscous, honey-like gold. And then I saw her.

She did not go, but swam through that thick light, and it seemed that the air around it was shining, breaking thousands of rainbow. Hair is the river of molten copper, the eyes - the lake after the storm, which still reflects the lightning. And in my head, in an abandoned homestead, where only the drafts of old griefs are usually only the drafts, all the bulbs lighted suddenly.

Here we are already drinking coffee in a tiny, cramped cafe, which are decorated with paper snowflakes, although outside the window is summer maturity. She laughs, with her head back, and for the first time in my life I understand what the phrase "loud laughter" means - it really sounds, bounces on the walls, cups, my chest, and I want to catch it, close to the jar and put it on the shelf for the gloomy days. And now we are already rising, angrily, ugly, because of some trivia, maybe because of unpacked dishes, or because I have been silent again for too long, and in its eyes the same Lake Storm, this time, just before the rain. But I know how to calm it down, I know that after an hour, maybe two, we will sit on the couch, clog, and watch some stupid movie, and I will think again that the world is just a black and white drawing. The year is passing by as a train wagons, I see us a little older, with the first silver threads in its copper hair, growing tomatoes on the balcony and still arguing, which of us loves more.

She's gone.

Everything. Just disappeared in the crowd.

The great love novel, which lasted exactly thirty -four of my steps. Here is the whole movie. There were no subtitles. And suddenly I felt that the sole of the right shoe was uncomfortable with moisture. You will need to carry a shoemaker.

Or maybe she's not like that. Maybe she's loudly sneezing and doesn't like coffee. Maybe just today the day when the sun turns any passership into a Hellenistic goddess.

I turned around the corner. The sky was overwhelmed again. The city put on its regular mask. But somewhere deep, in the chest, that laughter still sounded. Like an echo in an empty jar.