Harley accepted Amelie's chamomile only after he was convinced that there were no insects on it (chamomile).
- Monsieur? - a questioning, cheerful, fearful look of dark eyes. Chamomile. Why this flower? It was possible to build at least one hundred assumptions based on different theories. You could finally cautiously hint that she was a freshman and studied with her at the same faculty as Saint-Aisley, who... No, that's not exactly what you should have talked about. And Harley carefully took the chamomile, trying not to notice how the thin fingers shake.
She was clearly learning to dance somewhere, and the psychoanalyst, forced from time to time to be present at school parties, it was easy to remember the right movements. Still, one or the only time you can help a girl to feel... how is it? A beautiful lady. Nights away spinning in a waltz. The very one, which they are in love with and which they are in love with, is mutual.
Amelie really looked happy - there was a quiet joy in her eyes, requiring nothing in return. You couldn't just leave it at the end of the melody. And yet...
- Amelie! - Aeslie, cheerful as Pager, managed to appear out of nowhere without the help of magical powers. Unusually strong gesture corrected his glasses, Sen asked about it:
- Professor, may I kidnap her from you?
Harley barely had time to nod before the stunned, but still happy Pulen disappeared among the other students. Well, Aeslie came in handy. All he had to do was rejoice for them and quietly leave the dining room, covering the door behind him.
Help to find the right way and quietly disappear, knowing that your deed is unlikely to be remembered later. This, too, can be called a quality work of a psychologist, right?
Absorbed by his thoughts, the psychoanalyst walked slowly along the corridor. He stopped only when a tall figure appeared behind the turn and raised her hand with a threatening gesture... Oh, no, not threatening: the lighter flashed.
At the sight of the gloomy Assa Harley, scattered in the fingers of the chamomile, felt somehow uncomfortable. That is very uncomfortable.
- And you are not... - The psychoanalyst has been examined. Of course, the Phantom was not invited to the dance. And if they did, he would refuse, do not go to the fortune-teller.
- Why? - The investigator responded, but no longer bored, but slightly gloomy, as if he enjoyed looking at the embarrassed Harley.
- Well... Women are mysterious creatures. What do you think?
Strange as it may seem, I did not ironize the phantom. Even depicted a smile - slightly frightening, but convincing.
- All people - mysterious creatures - the former magician put his hand on the shoulder of the psychoanalyst, a little squeezed his fingers. - Otherwise, there would be no psychology.
Harley caught himself on that distractedly rips off the petals of chamomile. Somewhere he read about such a rite... or not?
- Perhaps. And what to do?
Strange as it may seem, at almost the same moment he had an idea in this regard.
***
Maybe they looked a little stupid from the outside. Perhaps it didn't make much sense to climb up to the roof, which hadn't been torn down. On the other hand, there was a red-golden dawn above Perverts.
- Why? - Phantom lazily said, putting his jacket on the shoulders of a psychoanalyst. Of course, it meant: "Why do you always wear a leather jacket indoors, and go outside without it and freeze like a fool," but Harley thought that the question is quite consistent with his thoughts.
Indeed, who needs it, this meaning?