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It was Pancake week. Everyone everywhere was having fun, charming women at the frivolous carnivals, drinking wine and plunging into different noisy adventures.
And the famous writer Ivan Perezvonov stayed at home, ate the homemade pancakes and listened to his wife talking with the reputable and positive guests.
“Ivan cannot drink more than one small drinking glass. We are writing a big novel now. Solunsky is a rat!”
“Why is he a rat?” the guests asked.
“He wrote a review about Ivan’s new book and told that Ivan schematizes the relations between the characters too much. He has no shame.”
When the guests left, the writer was lying on the sofa, reading a newspaper. Not knowing how to express her feelings, his wife came near the sofa, knelt and kissed the writer in the forearm, asking:
“What is wrong with you? You seem limp.”
“Nothing is wrong, thank you,” the writer sighed, “I only have brain liquefaction and cerebro-spinal fever. I want to take a walk.”
“Oh,” the wife was frightened, “you want to go for a walk? But a car could hit you, or some bad people could harm you.”
“No way,” objected Perezvonov. “Up to now, only good people have harmed me.”
The writer Perezvonov rejected the wife’s offer to accompany him and left the house.
He inhaled sweetly with his chest, tired of indoor air, and thought:
“My wife is intolerable. I am young and I desire new impressions. I’m going to cheat on my wife.”
Translated by Olga Pigareva, RT.
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