The train has arrived

      Fyodor sat on the bench almost in a nervous mood, trying not to show his impatience. Nevertheless, he was largely aware that in a cultural society it is not customary to show their emotions. He knew how to hide his emotions. But the trembling palms gave him away as soon as anyone looked at them. There was nothing he could do. His heart was pounding in his chest as if it was about to burst and this, fortunately, would not happen.       The small luggage in his hands was also shaking slightly, which made him just put it on the ground. It was too exciting for him.       Since childhood, he had dreamed of visiting Europe someday — and knew that it was absurd. Finances have never allowed him to do this, although recently his income has increased significantly. And yet the chance itself was given to him by his friend, whom he had known for a little more than two years. He glanced at her briefly, not daring to look any longer than necessary.       It was amazing.       The man next to him, sensing his mood, sat down next to him. There was sympathy in the brown eyes and a little laughter. A rare combination, unique to him. He put his arm around his shoulders, not crossing any boundaries. However, he knew that the former student was quite sensitive in terms of touch and emotions. Is it a miracle that the world of literature is still not shaken by the genius of this young man? He thought it was pretty unfair.       Stepan smiled gently, slightly lifting the corners of his lips, and gently reassured. — Don't worry, it will be a short trip. Everyone at the club has been through it. You can consider this an honorable dedication to the poets of the highest rank.       Fyodor blushed slightly as he pondered these words. It was loudly said: "The Poets' Club." But, nevertheless, they were famous poets in their fields. The people who were there sometimes seemed strange to him. When he began to think so, he remembered that he himself was strange by the standards of society. A math teacher, a part-time poet in a small literary magazine and with a reputation as a bachelor at twenty-six. That's definitely why he thought he was weird. Although most poets were the same, if not worse. And not everyone will make their way into the history of literature.       After some hesitation, he nodded to him. After all, it's only for a month. There may be delays of several days, but little can happen. But the memories will stay with him for the rest of his life. Stepan gently smoothed his hair, smiling faintly to himself. There are many poets, but it is impossible to find someone like this young man anymore. One in a million, a pure nugget. He closed his eyes sleepily, not letting go of him and still hugging him.       Somehow he thinks that this trip will be pleasant.