для читателей старше 18 лет
by <Baskanova Nataly>
“I wonder how long you can stay alone with your memories.
They are like your favorite soft scarf around your neck which sooner or later will strangle you.”
They were sitting at a table with an almost finished bottle of wine.
“Okay, okay, maybe it’s not nice, but what should I do if I like neither of them?!” said one of the girls, tossing her long brown hair.
They laughed their heads off, getting on the manager’s nerves, who strolled back and forth, watching the clock and wishing to end his shift as soon as possible.
“Life is unfair; men are either rich or handsome!” said Olive, the blonde girl. “What?” Olive peered at the manager passing by.
“Watch this classical music hater. He is the poorest example: neither rich nor handsome.” Ailey whispered to her girlfriend, leaning on the edge of the table.
“You know, as long as I have you and Chloe I don’t need anyone else. Chicks before dicks, as they say. By the way, she is coming in five” said Olive, holding Ailey’s hand.
“Oh, good.” Ailey answered, looking not very pleased. “I have to leave you for a minute.” She proceeded toward the toilet to the sound of the music while Olive watched her.
“And one and two! Point your toes! Smoother!” she cried after the girl moving away.
Chloe noticed her as soon as she entered the bar. Olive was sitting at the table with a glass of semi-dry red wine, daydreaming, and gazing out of the window. Chloe had always wondered how she could stand the tart flavor. The light played on Olive’s hairclips, which she used to pin her locks to the back of her head, trying hard to hide the protruding ears she was so ashamed of. The scent of garlic croutons filled the air. The place was almost empty; only a few lonely customers were sipping their drinks and staring straight ahead. Two waiters strolled back and forth, searching for any work to do, and a bartender was rubbing the counter till it shined. The music was so quiet that you could easily hear the sound of the girl’s shuffling ballet shoes on the floor. Oh, how she loved those shoes! They reminded her of the concert tours of Europe that used to be so frequent.
“Chloe! You finally made it here! We were worried you’d never come!”
“How long have you been here?” Chloe asked.
“For two hours and counting, maybe,” Olive answered, playing with an empty glass. “Want some?” She poured another drink for herself.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“We’ve already discussed everything we could think of, even remembered some of the dance parts. Unfortunately, without music,” Olive continued, turning towards the manager, who pretended he didn’t hear her. “‘cause Mr.Douchebag downright refused to play Swan Lake, saying that it’s not the Bolshoi Theater.” Chloe’s friend chattered.
“By WE you mean who?” the girl said.