Linor Goralik: five stories about expectations

... Here, let's say, the engineers R. and F. fell ill with a dog, a very cute mongrel Sonya, stormy and shaggy. Well, I ate something, then I jumped for a long time in her youth, then peritonitis began. The veterinary ambulance took Sonya's junk with engineers R. and F. to the veterinary hospital, Sonya registered, washed, thoroughly shaved her puziko, made a tiny incision, pulled all the bad, sewn Sonya and let everyone go home. And engineers R. and F. had a difficult period in a relationship, they hardly talked. And then Sonya lies on the bed, poor and exhausted, and engineer F. strokes her so unbearably tender, warm and pink shabby puzico and says: “Go, touch, what a beautiful belly.” Engineer R. comes, touches Puziko (and Puziko is unreal to mimimi, of course), agrees. And they begin to talk about who will sit with the poor Sonya’s poor mongrel tomorrow, and then about his work, and then about everything - and in six hours of conversation and stroking the sonno puzik, engineers R. and F. manage to speak out, and cry, and kiss, and get up from the mourler decay cleansed. And they begin a fairly new life, that is, old, as before, after acquaintance, close and tender. And such a life lasts four months, and then the problems begin to accumulate, then - claims, closing in oneself, “I can’t see you”, that's all. And engineer F. is already sleeping in the kitchen on the cot, and you need to solve something. And then engineer R. meets her at home after work and says: come here soon. And she goes and sees that on the bed in the bedroom lies a completely stunned mongrel Sonya with a thoroughly shaved belly. He claps his eyes and somehow refuses to understand this is all. And engineer F. in horror asks: what, peritonitis again? And engineer R. says: Stop, we are adults, we all understand. Go, go to bed, we will talk, otherwise I’m in vain, or something, Sonya shaved.

... Here, say, the classicist Sh. Tells students that when talking about the culture of the Roman Empire, one should remember how small a layer of the truly educated population was. And that the whole intellectual elite of the time of Caesar could fit in two or three carcasses.

... Here, let's say, head. urole. The T. department, working in a small city hospital, learns on the next fly that his branch, it turns out, has increased monthly indicators. That is, in the last month, less bed-days in terms of one patient came out, less often the correction of the initially selected treatment schemes was required, and even the consumption of the drugs as a whole decreased. And head. urole. The department of T. is very happy, of course, however, honestly tells himself that this is most likely some kind of statistical accident. And six months later, they celebrated one of the nurses in an outpatient birthday, drank, began to poison, as usual, stories about patients, and it turned out that in the corresponding period they had a peasant who loved order for three weeks. He helped the sisters to fold the paper, sort small things, sorted out sheets with them. And the urine tests on the tray were also put in order: so he placed that the color of the liquid in jars grows evenly, from light to dark, and if the palette turned out to be insoluble, he redistributed the contents a little. And most importantly - go guess. Well, it rearranges jars. But it turned out - a strong colorist.

... Here, say, in his student youth, the architect G. worked a little by Santa Claus for the New Year holidays, and friends from GITIS arranged. And since he was always a quiet, tender and lonely man, he did not like New Year's student guels and with pleasure went to private orders on the very herself, in fact, New Year's Eve, especially since they paid perfectly for such trips. And then the future architect G. at the set 11 o’clock in the evening comes to the appointed address in the Dedmorous fur coat, a beard in the whole face, hat, boots, prepared. With a bag in which some plastic nonsense as gifts. Waiting under the door of the appointed apartment of the appointed eleven hours, calls. A beautiful woman of about thirty opens the door with a jerk. "Santa Claus called?" - the architect, the architect, politely asks, and then the woman begins to hiss terribly at him. He bounces and says that he does not dare to touch her. It is amazed that he is in time and sober. And he says that he is here only thanks to Pasha, who is waiting for him there in the room, preparing. And the architect G., strongly scorched from all this, breaks to say something, but then a little boy runs into the corridor in a green masquerade suit and hat and begins to loudly pronounce the rhyme. About the fact that he is “the cucumber is salty, the variety is the most praised! Santa Claus is waiting for us, the performance begins! " He drags the architect G. in the living room and puts the chair specially put forward. And in the corner there are still children, eight people. And a thick ruddy peasant, obviously the same Pasha, the father of the family, all shines like a director at the premiere. Children begin to show the performance, and the architect G., the person responsible, considers it his duty to listen carefully to them, but this woman who stands behind his chair and something evil hisses terribly, but he cannot even answer, only “Ho-Ho” and “Ho-Ho-Ho”. And the woman hisses in his ear, that he probably despises Pasha, and Pasha is a holy man, a father, who needs to study from everyone, gathered children from all over the porch so that adults could practice normally. And that one thing is to give birth to two, and another thing is to love two. So only ten minutes later the architect of G. manages to understand that the children portray Olivier. In addition to the ogun boy there is a girl-kolbask (“I am a delicious sausage, soft-just a fairy tale! With me, olivier is tastier and all the traditions are more true!”), A touching boy (“I am the sweetest, I have matured in the garden! I pour me out of the jar, interfere with a spoon-wound!”), The ovo boy is not simple, but the most, but the most-most-most. Cool! I will cut me into Olivier, and I will get to the whole family! ”) And the carrot girl. Girl carrot. About twelve. And the poor architect G. can only say “Ho-Ho-Ho”, and this woman stands next to him, and from her, she is completely dusting with hatred, she will never smile either a sausage or a cucumber, and the play, meanwhile, is a brilliant play, Santa Claus has his own role: then the children sit on his knees, then they are trying to look into the bag, whether he brought it with them, whether he brought it with them, whether he brought it with them. So, a huge spoon to eat Olivier. And this woman begins to say that he seems to think that she tells him all, because he is not indifferent to her. And what - of course, is not indifferent, they have two children and common youth, they had love as in a fairy tale and in general. And begins to sob. And the poor architect G., who is continued to dang in Olivier, strokes her carefully on the leg - well, like a gesture of compassion. And then she begins to stroke his neck. Pretty energetic. And the performance, meanwhile, reaches the climax: Pasha’s exit, the main point. And Pasha reports: “And I am mayonnaise: I am a crown of creation! Our olivier will blindly into one happy family! " And the children begin to drive a round dance. And Santa Claus cannot join them, because she holds this beautiful sad woman by the ass, and she straightens his fingers on the back of his head with her fingers. And then Pasha reports that now Yana and Andryushenka will sing to us, and we will accompany them on plates. And everyone begins to accompany on plates, and Santa Claus gives a silver dish and a half, and even mom agrees to knock with two coffee cups against each other. And the architect G. loves to tell that in general it turned out a wonderful evening, so family and warm, and the mistress of the house very gently kissed goodbye on the cheek and stroked his cotton beard, and paid him normally, but he still does not know and does not want to know.

... Here, say, a middle-aged conductor N. says that in your youth, of course, you dream of a denture psychotherapist: this is an anesthesia, we will tear it out. In maturity-about a psychotherapist-splash: here we will fix it, we will fake it up. And by old age, he says the middle-aged conductor N., you begin to dream of a minister’s psychotherapist: “But we will wash this, paint and funeral.”