The floxes smelled deliciously, their smell mixed with the smell of freshly cut mint. She was standing there with a bunch of trees on her head, thinking of where to dry it - the best way to keep it was to keep the tree, but you wouldn't get into the house. I have to come with my mother. If she wants to, of course. In summer, her mother sat with her granddaughter, once her beloved niece, but time is ruthless. Sometimes it goes away not one thing, taking love with it. And the emptiness fills this place like autumn leaves cover the grass. Why did this happen? Why did the child with whom she worked so hard, whom she loved, begin to cause rejection and irritation?
A father who had become dementia during his illness was understandable. All these years, she held herself back, driving her despair away, crying at night. And here - the child is still the same, but not love. She buried herself in a bunch of peppermint - enough, enough! She gives presents honestly, she does everything she can!
She was called by her name again. A voice she hasn't heard in years. She slowly turned her head towards the gate. There was a friend of hers from her early childhood. They used to change wheelchairs and bicycles, playing cops and playing in the family alike. Once upon a time, in another life, his cousin and her older sister had arranged weddings for them. With flower and wire rings, ice cream and juice on the field and pond. When they were teenagers, they barely talked, so, short hi-bye. As she walked past him, she felt her ears blushing, hidden in her hair, and she didn't understand why. Then her father fell ill, and everything went into the background. Studying at the institute, a house that is no longer a house, but just an apartment. Outings on a summer residence as rescue. Hatred to myself for my emotions. Some unsuccessful novels. And at last, rest. And now he was standing near her, and she was surprised. They hadn't talked for so many years, and the memories of friendship had been erased after the statute of limitations had expired.
He asked something, and she said something. She asked herself something. Out of courtesy? Out of interest? At some point, she found herself pouring tea, actively telling him something. In the evening, he took her for a walk. They walked along the country road in the weak light of lanterns, stumbling upon the dacha owners who were mowing at them with surprise.
He came every day of the week that she lived in the country house. He fit into her peace without disturbing her. He helped her disassemble mint and make coffee, set up an old cassette player, and listened to bards, sometimes commenting on something funny. They went to the nearest town and wandered through it. They looked down the hill at the river and kissed.
She left in the morning, full of regrets. In the evening before that they were sitting on the porch and kept silent, as if they had exhausted all the topics. She was grateful for the week, but did not want to tell him. He didn't ask. The emptiness was gone, giving way to something else.
Everything was back to normal. In a couple of days, she woke up, maybe regretting a little bit of what hadn't happened. Of course, the cat resented her, came to the door and scrubbed out, but what can I do? She was interested in her sister's daughter again - it wasn't the same old love, but it was better than nothing. Everything was almost settled down. Almost. But three days after leaving, in the morning, on her way to work, she heard his voice:
- You forgot the peppermint on the porch," he was standing there with a bunch of chips, clutching something in his hand, "and a ring.
On his palm lay his ring of wire. She had lost hers a long time ago, and she wanted to tell him that, but... But he pressed his finger to her lips, and the ring, already different, was on her hand.