Читать книгу Intermarcity - Кирилл Кошкин - Страница 4

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Kolomenskoe meadows, slopes, so inclined. The nasty food is in a paper bag. The weather winds with cloudy breath on the face, the forget-me-nots of thoughts are waving. The bad weather is poured by two birds against the air current. The birds are gaining height by the slits of the feathers at the ends of the curved wings. Bare feet are in the fingers of earthly green. Dry last year’s reproaches of dryness of grasses. The leaves turn upside down by the wind on the left. A lady has white body. She wrote in the album ‘kiss me’ with red letters. The writing was lost immediately in the grass and she looks at the man in his underpants, turning on a small chair, who cannot be called anything other than a pipette. And now it’s staring at a man with a pipette or on a pipette and this entire construction is on a hill. He went into the bushes. The white lady takes sips of the red solution, tears the grass and screws the blue onto the transparent one. Whatever you think, it has been thought a hundred times. When you take your hand, there are old traces. Here the boat sails to Mar`ino, boiling on a bend. Birds gurgle, refusing the bad weather in shelter. Far and high the stick of the plane brings someone from afar. The white lady tears the sheets and rubs the colored fingers with the napkin. A man with a pipette pulls his socks and puts his foot with his heel on the ground, while spreading out his fingers. Probably he has a bright red thread sponge at home, with which he carefully rubs the bottom of his belly. And he does not let the sponge go anywhere further than a bathroom. In no way. So the sponge remains a prisoner. Bright cheerful, bold and all just to rub an extraneous belly. He should take it for a walk. After all, he takes the pipette for a walk.

The white lady sniffs and fidgets restlessly. I’ll go and touch. Now. When the man and his pipette are leaving the windy grass, going to the sponge.