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I’m lying.
Then I will say this.
I feel bad with others.
– On bezrybe.
– Well, what are you saying! I would meet with you so much time.
Indeed, he thought, would not.
He put his hand on the waist of this red beast, wondering for the thousandth time where it came from, with Pierrot’s eyes and the body of a circus acrobat.
Strange, like a witch, she also surrounded herself with all sorts of creatures – snakes, rats.
Musicians, poets.
Flexible, like your own mood, it all consisted of whims.
Sometimes He hated her for it, but he started far more often from a half-turn when he saw the familiar grimace.
He continued the topic: “It’s just that the beach is long, but there’s no fish and no, so you go, what your mother gave birth to, with a crab on a leash.”
“Well, you can’t put a leash on you.”
“That’s for sure,” he grinned smugly.
It was thought at the same time quite different.
– But we already have a past.
Little such a toy past.
Maybe it is – a leash on which some people drive others? – I think, yes.
Past.
A piece of winter – with rusting lamps sticking out from under the snow.
First meeting.
Party bars.
Caricature fight with a rival on the ice, when both fell before they managed to wipe.
Nights – one after another – at first ordinary, on duty, then strange, with a tear.
This is her eternal coldness, insulting politeness wax doll, allowing you to do with yourself everything.

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Tantrums and carefree gaiety, whipping around on the Peak of the Spring, like climbers in a bundle.
Cold Moscow.
Icy Peter.
An empty compartment, and this incomprehensible conversation about insanity, about illness, about abnormality.
Yes.
What – no, but they have a past.
And his leash is strung like a string.
Either one is too eager to move forward, or the second can barely move his legs.
And who leads whom? Maybe someone third, invisible, leads both, bleeding, like a husky on the Yukon.
– And yet, there are no perfect lovers.
– Yeah.
– she reached for a cigarette, took a good sip of wine and, looking to the side, said: – I know one thing, not more.
Jealousy burned His groin.
His Roly put his head out from under the sheet, like a genital – from behind the bar of a tavern at the sound of vomit.
– And who is it? – He asked in the wooden voice of her husband from anecdotes.
“I’ll go get some coffee,” she said, sipping.
She got up and looked at him with a smile.
– And still?

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– He asked her red, fluffy groin.
– And yet I will make coffee.
Tired of drinking wine.
You’re so funny from above, would you hide or something.
– all this was said in a strange, unrecognizable voice.
A drop of sweat, rolling down her belly, hung on her hair as a Christmas tree ornament.
“I have tea,” he said, and turned to the wall.
– All the same, because you will not drink it, until the wine is over.
Okay, I’ll do it.
Do you know him.
And never would be jealous, honest word! – Yeah.
Found also jealous.
Okay, no need for tea.
Lie down, tell me.
– He was exhausted from jealousy.
His heart ached, Ivan Ivanovitch stood like a flagpole for a white banner of surrender.
She obediently lay down next.
– I can call him.
– she said casually.
– What?! – He forced himself to smile, and only his palm with its claws stuck into it knew what it cost him.
– What is he, hiding in the closet ?.
– Not. Sex roulette cam.

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