Читать книгу Were not were - - Страница 67

I have a friend. No, neither he nor I think so. Let’s just say, a friend. Although this is too strong a word. More like an interlocutor, but so unpleasant that I prefer not to talk to him. I can’t see him, his face is so annoying to me. He is a complete egoist: he always and everywhere speaks only about himself, as if there were no other topics. He is convinced that he is a genius. And I am sure that the genius is me. Least. Or maybe someone higher. And he is nothing, in essence, so – a burp of God. Therefore, we always argue, but silently. He is condescendingly silent when he sees me, hinting with all his appearance that I am nobody for him – a real bunch: a shameful misunderstanding. You could say it’s nothing. But I don’t go into my pocket for a word and eloquently keep silent in response, loudly hinting that I don’t notice him either. When he calls me on the phone, I know for sure, without further ado, that it is he. At the other end of the tube, they are so expressively silent. And there is no point in fussing and saying “Alla, I can’t hear you” or “Speak”. He has no suitable words for me, only contemptuous silence. I answer him the same. So we, sometimes, are silent for an hour or two, until we are separated. But, here’s what’s strange – I can’t be without him for a long time, and he can’t be without me: he immediately stops missing something. There is nothing to breathe, as if from within the breath intercepts. Therefore, once a week we meet on neutral territory, take a bottle of vodka for two and drink it silently. Like two old friends who no longer need words to speak. And then we silently disperse. Without even shaking hands, without looking into the eyes. This is all because a person desperately needs someone whom he can hate sincerely and from the bottom of his heart. At least once a week, but to really, like the last time. And for this, you need someone like him. Real. Friend.