The scent of a women

The scent of a women... If only you knew what kind of rubbish... I don't need anything... Anna Akhmatova. Poetry. Instead of an epigraph... “Well, well, well, well,” the clock sang. And everyone listened to them. It listened to the house, squatted in the cold and crunched old logs. The mice were listening in the underground, waiting to be freed from the cat. They wanted to go for a walk to get bread and crumbs, perhaps accidentally forgotten under the table. The cat listened, with her round, shaggy hat dozing on the back of a tiger-snatch, an outlandish product of the local clothing industry. The cat was old, looking forward to the evening, walks with mice, a good hunt. My daughter, little Olechka, was listening. Worker and main assistant. She put the doll to bed and fell asleep myself. The Elder Daughter listened and asked for time off to see her friends. Winter did not listen and tightened a ring of bitter frost around the House. I didn’t hear the song of the clock. The beggar woman in an oriental quilted robe sat next to the windows of the house during the day. The woman got ready and went into her Unknown or Nowhere with her things, a rug for sitting and her own difficult life. “Well, well, well, well,” the Clock continued. - What is there to be sad about if the floors in the house are polished and mopped, dinner is ready and it’s so pleasant to sit in the evening, warm up comfortably and relax in the circle of yellow, warm light from an old lamp under a lampshade. - With the pendulum at the ready, the clock hurried along with the time. And they knew that everyone could hear or listen to them. The husband, waiting for dinner, did not notice the clock. The husband read the newspaper, read selected passages out loud or reported them, and told his wife about the events. The wife didn’t hear, she was in a hurry with dinner. I missed the question. I chose the answer inaccurately. The man was disappointed, frowned, and offended. Traditions of Family Relations have a Mass of Inertia and a speed of Explosion. Without staying in the right rut, they can run over the weak or knock down the careless. Guessing the Beginning and then the approaching Family Scene, the Woman suddenly remembered the cartoon. And I felt like Little Boy Mowgli, who solved problems competently and asked only those around him and teachers: “Roar? Run away? Feeling sorry for her husband, she did not break a plate or other utensils, nor start a counter scandal. I decided to remain human. It is worthy and correct to answer. I was let down by a lump that suddenly formed in my throat. And the voice refused. Dropping her head in her hands and her hands on the table, the woman began to cry quietly. HER DAY began and took shape in the morning. The gray dawn seeped through the upper oval of the ancient window. Trees began to appear. Their branches floated freely in the air, darkened, and were attached to the trunks. The outline of the building opposite appeared, then the windows in it. A security guard walked by and turned on lights everywhere. “I woke up,” the woman realized, “I got up.” I have to go. She walked past the children and her sleeping husband into the kitchen. I did my morning chores and breakfast. She woke up and gathered, fed and saw everyone off. Finally, she was left alone. HER DAY was beginning, HER WORK awaited. The doorbell rang loudly. Then the call was repeated. There are guests who look like a natural disaster. They don't know about it themselves. Aunt Sonya sat in a chair with dignity. She ate freshly cooked hamburgers gracefully. She recently retired. She loved social life. Visited relatives. The hostess saw off the guest. She sighed. Her day was shortened by an hour and a half. She went to the window. I saw a beggar woman, habitually freezing in a busy place. She took away the leftover food and hot sandwiches and said the secret word: “Kichkin toy.” I saw an answering and weak smile that I couldn’t unfreeze the pale face. I choked on my own pity. She's back. She let in a calico cat, which her husband did not like for her homeless and independent disposition. And the woman loved. And in the absence of her husband, she invited the cat to warm up and stay with her. The cat warmed itself, purred, rubbed against its legs. The owner felt a surge of inspiration, sat down at the table, and began to work. The doorbell rang. The invasion of guests cannot be predicted. Their mutual acquaintance and family friend, chatting pleasantly over a cup of coffee, took another hour and a half from the hostess of the house and tired her with social gossip, as well as chatting ad infinitum. Then the neighbor came. I drank tea. She complained about life, the cold, her husband, the house manager, leaks on the roof of the house and on the ceiling. The woman listened. I sent my neighbor out. And she sighed sadly. HER DAY was over today before it even began. The eldest daughter is about to return from school. Then he will bring his youngest girl from kindergarten. And the translations remain on the table untouched. Postponed until better times and until next time. And every morning, promising herself to work, the woman did not have time or could not fulfill her own promises. And now I was crying... - I can't be perfect. “She sobbed almost silently, “I’m very simple.” I am normal. I, a housewife drowned in a heap of household chores. And dis - disk - diskva - disqualified. The man looked in surprise at the explosion of emotions. Incomprehensible. Unpardonable. And a bitter feeling of regret suddenly overwhelmed him. - Where are our common dreams and goals, hopes and plans? She has now become such that I read for her from the article: Wrap skirts, stress on the second syllable. World fashion. It's development and trends. She answers me: “Yes, honey. Wrap skirts. I understand. The scent's of a women. - Emphasis on the first syllable! This doesn't happen in life! Continues: I understand. Women's fragrances. Scents for women. My reprimand makes him roar! The man looked for a long time. His frustration was over. And it gradually turned into incomprehensible and mixed feelings of pity, love, desire, lust... Smoothing out the strict wrinkles on his dark, stern brow, the Husband extended the PALM OF TRUCE. The old clock ticked normally and cheerfully. They shouted: “Yes, yes, yes.” They did not know that only the Woman, the mistress of the house and its Guardian, saves watches and other old familiar things from being immediately taken to a landfill by the LEGAL HUSBAND, a lover of novelty and various graceful changes. Pressing her cheek and nose, covering herself, shielding herself and hiding from the world in the shadow of the large and strong palm of her OWN HUSBAND, the woman cried, cried, cried...