intersection

The heavy, like cement dust, the body climbed into a two -storey bus, and every step is a separate breakthrough in pain through the knees and hips as if to rotate the rusty screws in the body joints. The upper floor, as always, stinks with wet wool and cheap perfume - the aroma of everyday life of England. Through the dirty, gray -tired glass of the city, the same houses slipped and their chimneys smoke into the colorless sky. I was just another foreign body in this organism, fossilized in fatigue, waiting for my stop as salvation.

Suddenly a new wave of passengers invaded the bus inside. Uniform jackets - halved, dry beetroot. Black teen swarms filled the space with their claws, the language I heard the sounds, but I did not realize the meaning. And the faces are like kneading from a different clay, stranger, angled, angular, with proportions that broke the usual perception of beauty. For a moment I felt not on the London suburban bus, but on the deck of the alien ship.

And then, in that moving, foreign space, I saw it.

Her face was the very essence of that strangeness, the geometry that should not exist. But existed. And that existence was so absolute, so undeniable with its beauty that all my prejudice, all the canon seen in European art and magazines, collapsed into the dust. It was not the beauty you enjoyed. It was the beauty that happened to you. As an accident or a sudden disease. The shine from which there was no place to go in a cramped bus space. I, a creature in the dirt and sweat, stolen, stolen the corner of the eye as if the conductivity of the conductors, I tried to look, understand, but the gaze slipped, bounced from those forms like too strong light.

There was a panic that I would miss the stop. That I will forever turn these wheels imprisoned between my fatigue and her incomprehensible face. I pressed the stop button.

I climbed out. The narrow English street, on both sides, was lined with toy, cars, led to my bed. And it was not thoughts in my head. Her face turned. How can it be? I didn't know her name, her speech, her world, but I knew her beauty more accurately than her own name. It was not a thought. It was a fact. Like gravity. Like pain.

Now, many years later, after discovering the narrow track in myself, through which I can look at beauty without the desire to have it, I understand - I was the only viewer of that moment. Perhaps even she, that being in a beetroot jacket, did not know what weapon wears in itself, what anomaly embodies.

She just lived, and the world around her coordinated with her beauty. It was not her merit or effort. It was a law of physics that no textbook did. Her being was an event that rewrites the circumstances.

Maybe the world is really not alone? Maybe there are separate, unbearable reality? And one, the one you are born, tends to you, and for another, you need to break, trying to get into it.