The market. We need to buy our beloved flowers. Ocean of flowers, not going, but swimming. I swim among the flowers, inhale fragrances. Bright screaming cloves. Languid roses. Sighing peonies, and frivolous daisies. "No, it's all bullshit. I swim on. An old man of small height with gray in a beard, not old at all, and his eyes are so mischievous and kind, he easily sells dandelions.
Is it possible to sell such flowers - they have no price? - And he has a full baby bucket of yellow dandelions, and the same bucket - silver. Is that so! Even the spirit was breathtaking. That's what I need!
I like both dandelions. Yellowish, they are as beautiful as sunshine, amazing as young children, and when they grow up, get older, their beauty goes into tenderness, they become silver and especially tender. After all, if you breathe very quietly on them, then they will touch, call, and if you blow even more, then they will flinch, take off, and joyfully scatter around the world, dancing and circling, dancing and circling.
I carefully approach the old man, ask in a whisper, so as not to spook luck, suddenly I won't sell, I stutter a little with excitement.
"I sell. What are you like?
"Silver, silver to me.
- Is there money? - The old man is also worried and looks at me incredulously.
- I am, I got a salary today.
Hastily pulling out a pot of coins. The old man carefully takes flowers out of the baby bucket, wraps the stalks of silver dandelions into the cliff of the old newspaper, and stretches a bouquet of the most delicate and refined flowers in the world.
"Thank you," I say to the old man.
And I swim again. I'm falling out. Passers-by politely switch to the other side so as not to accidentally breathe on my flowers, they are so tender.
Proud and important waiting for my bus. Carefully holding a bouquet of flowers. Love, how happy she will be! Others look at me suspiciously, whisper, and show in my direction. I must have a very happy look. The bus came up, as always crowded. Stuffy and tight on the bus, everyone pushes. Verzila, a head above me, breathes overheating so that dandelions scuttle fearfully, flowers are scary.
"Careful man, don't scare my flowers.
- What-oh-oh? - amazingly extended the versil, looking at me like some kind of insect.
- Silver dandelions, they are so tender, do not breathe on them like that, please.
Silence came. Everyone is looking at me and the verzila, somehow strange looking. I wonder if I'll apologize or not. Verzila first fell asleep, looked on the sides, saw approving views, and then his breasts swarmed powerfully, filled with air to failure, then a powerful tornado fell on my flowers, and the dandelions - they shook, soundlessly cried out of pain, pulled their heads in a suicide convulse, and a pack of small parachutists soared up and flew around the bus. Everyone started laughing. Verzila smiled brazenly and felt victorious. Everyone laughed, even the kids. Kids, they laughed, too.
God, why are they laughing? Why did they do it? What about my favorite thing I tell her? Why did they ruin such beauty? Why are they laughing? Why don't they like silver dandelions? Let me out, let me out. I don't want to be with you. You're all crazy. You don't understand anything. I'll live apart from you. I will have my own house, and in the garden I will grow dandelions.
© Pavel Barabash
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