And mornings meant Lubyatova cornflakes soaked in Domik v Derevne moloko, the one with the babushka and the dacha and the berezka on the carton. That’s what Andrushka was being served when she turned to him and said, “It’s seven o’clock, and I love you.” And he never forgot it, and never forgot that voice as he sat there bleeding in the snow, and everything in between, all those little bits and pieces, that soft laugh so innocent you could never reproduce it. And he often thought of these things when eating his cornflakes with milk from the carton with the babushka looking at him through the large glasses. He had thought of it when they had their first fight, when he ate his breakfast alone and she pretended to be asleep, and knew he would regret it later. And then one morning he was eating his Lubyatova, thinking of his regret, but she was gone.
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5 Comments
I didn’t understand a thing to this post, but that’s actually why I like this extermely poetic text very well adapted to the atmospheric and storyless photograph…May be I should have followed the former posts to get the story, but in a way, I like this way : hazy and elliptic.
Write on pinaki!
(THought of you last WE, spent it by very nice french old town by the sea)
Perfect, Manuel!
Some sad words….
The picture is perfect for Russia.
Great photo, Isn’t it amazing everytime we argue with our loved one a second later we usually regret it because the thought is always there what if this is the last argument? what if we never see them again? what if we never have a chance to say sorry? and yet we do still argue.
Love the photo..but little lost with the words..slow is me.. sighz..
approx 40% of your stories start with “And”..and that makes it so interesting!