On a shoulder of this women every ordinary or unusual day is perched she and, elevating for a while white, long, as a wire, eyelashes, she lowers them again. She sits there, fawns, cheers women up with a trumpery of the pleasant visions, she disputes, blames and complains, this changing and tame cat-memory. Women straightens a doll-like figure, rises from a sofa and lets the cat to jump off the shoulder. Nobody is going to disturb her until tomorrow. Women goes to sleep. "Tomorrow" comes in a rush, cuts a loaf of a dream with an unpleasantly sharp morning ray, and women hears tossing and turning and a slight coughing of a man on a bed by the opposite wall. Then a door slams, water is splashing in a bath room, while the cat-memory jumps softly into women's bed.
-Uh, what again, what do you want? Kitty, kitty, go away! Dream? What dream? O, yeah! I've seen my mom and my town. It felt good, cozy. Was it cold or not, I can't recall, but it was happy, merry. Remembering the dream, woman feels like a little girl, from whom a candy was taken away, a very big, vital candy. She squeezes her lips just before they puff up, her offended eyes are widely open, and heart is beating-beating-beating. She puts on a robe and goes to shower, and so does the cat. Here they sing together Russian songs, all about "the bell is jingling" and "in a remote step". There are steam, hot water, and a cat, casting slides in front of her eyes.
-Look, this is your street, neighbors, sister, school, nature...
Her softened body calms down. Women wraps wet, grown ludicrously ugly cat in a puffy towel, and proceeds to dress up, cook the breakfast, see her husband off to work, bustle about a house, meet her husband from work, and in the evening, while staring in TV, stroke cat's far again, listen pensively the purring of a be gone time, and feel so painfully vividly all of those, who disappeared from her life together with her town, country, and an entire Euro-Asian continent.
-Where are you?
Now the cat, like a witch, stares at her with the two of her blue puddles. Stares, as if she is ready to lick off the invisible tears, but instead she catches them with the screens of her eyes, swallows and gulps them. There, on another side of the cat's essence, the tears turned into rain-drops and they rattle, rattle, upon the asphalt, upon the roofs, flop into a face of a little girl in a yard, to whom women will never smile in respond on her " Zdraste!". They rattle upon a balcony of her neighbors, to whom women will never bring a pie, backed for no particular reason. They rattle on a sagging shoulders of her mother, whom she will never see again, and further, and further. The drops grow into a gray impenetrable rain. The cat lowers her eyelashes.
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