— It's just a holiday! Put it in place.
And she dutifully stuffed white tights in the dresser and pulled the hated red, small old scar. Tightened them, hiding behind the door with only a towel on his knees still SAG, and resembled deflated fish bladders.
— You can open a can of peas?
— No. It is on Olivier.
— When's Olivier?
— For the New year.
And weekdays were taken prisoner. And dinner every day was the same pasta with homemade tomato ketchup and a tea and hard as cement drying.
And it was impossible to touch the high guest, the glasses exhibited a glass darkly cupboard, there are sprats without a special occasion and wearing her grandmother's brooch-cameo.
Be throttled and put on a new combination (it's only in the hospital). And then the holiday came, but the tights were small and had to walk to school, shy low sliding gussets.
And still much remains then: leisure, dreams, reflections, "I'm sorry", "I love you," tango lessons, Hermitage, sachertorte and new linens.
Everyone is waiting for some event. The right case. The best of times. The end of the war. Another Monday. The onset of winter. Clarity. Stabilization of the economy. The arrival of summer. Elections. To have grown children. Retirement. Get rid of a cold. Home away from home. Higher wages. All for tomorrow...
On the occasion that may never come..."
