З життя
Разгадай загадку любви или самовлюблённости!
Любит? Не любит?.. А может, просто себя?
— Как это «не можешь выбрать»? — Катерина уставилась на подругу, словно та призналась в чем-то непростительном. — Если мечешься между двумя, значит, никого по-настоящему не любишь. Это же очевидно.
— Тебе — да, а мне вот нет, — вздохнула Марина. — Оба хороши. Оба мне дороги. К каждому чувствую что-то свое.
— Да тебе просто нравится, что они за тобой бегают, — отрезала Катерина. — Настоящая любовь не играет чужими чувствами. Это низко.
— Легко тебе осуждать, — отвернулась Марина. — Не все такие уверенные, как ты. Я только учусь. В понедельник кажется, что один — мой. Во вторник — уже другой. В среду снова первый… Как тут разобраться? Оба — свои. Оба — не чужие.
— Брось монетку, раз уж решимости нет, — проворчала Катерина. — Хоть так избавишься от этих мук. И совесть не будет мучить.
— Спасибо за мудрый совет. Может, тебе лучше в фонтан кидаться мелочью — авось счастье привалит. И не забывай, что у тебя, может, выбора-то и не было. Или не из кого было выбирать?
— Я бы никогда так не поступила! — вспыхнула Катерина. — У меня есть Степан. Я его люблю. Он меня любит. И все у нас хорошо.
— Ну да, ну да… Совет да любовь, — горько усмехнулась Марина.
…
Прошло три года. Катерина сидела в пустынном кафе, сжимая в руках стакан с остывшим вином. В голове звучал тот давний разговор.
«Никогда не говори “никогда”»… Кто бы мог подумать, что она окажется на месте Марины. Теперь сама металось между двумя. Она — та самая Катерина, что раздавала советы направо и налево.
С Дмитрием они были вместе больше года. Все казалось идеальным: надежный, умный, заботливый. Настоящий мужчина. И с самыми серьезными намерениями.
Но вдруг в ее жизни снова появился Степан. Тот самый. Бывший. Который когда-то ревновал по пустякам, обижался, злился. Они расстались, когда стало ясно — он больше не смотрит на нее с любовью. Она стала для него пустым местом: «не так одета», «не то сказала», «не туда посмотрела»… Потом — молчание. Разрыв. Боль.
И вдруг — звонок. «Привет, как дела? Мне не с кем поговорить… Давай встретимся».
Она пошла. Просто из любопытства. Хотела убедиться — все кончено.
Но перед ней стоял сломленный Степан. Без работы, с больной матерью, одинокий. Он говорил, говорил без остановки, а она слушала. И жалела.
Не сказала, что у нее есть другой. Что, может быть, она счастлива. Что ее ждут.
Степан начал писать. Звонить. Они стали видеться. Сначала редко, потом все чаще.
Дмитрий ничего не замечал. Все так же заботился, дарил подарки, смотрел на нее тем самым взглядом — теплым, любящим.
А Степан… Это было как возвращение в прошлое. Вечеринки, общие друзья, поездки. С ним она снова чувствовала себя молодой. Дмитрий не понимал этого. Он — взрослый, серьезный, домосед.
Катерина разрывалась. Дмитрий — тот, с кем можно строить будущее. Степан — тот, кого все еще жалко. И… может, любит?
Она снова и снова перебирала варианты. Как сказать правду? Как выбрать?
Однажды, когда терпеть уже не было сил, она набрала номер Марины. Извиниться.
— Прости меня за те слова… Теперь я понимаю, что ты тогда чувствовала.
— За что прощать? — удивилась Марина. — Я даже не помню, о ком шла речь. Это было так давно.
— А я теперь на твоем месте. Не могу выбрать. Страшно.
— Если бы ты любила — разве была бы «между двух»? Ты просто не любишь никого. А себя — очень даже. Представь, если бы так поступили с тобой? Встречались с тобой, а за спиной — еще кто-то… Кого бы ты любила тогда?
— Никого, — прошептала Катерина.
— Вот и ответ. Потому что так ведут себя те, кто любит только себя. Катюша, если один из них тебе дорог — посмотри на него. Представь, что его нет. Что он уходит. Что больше никогда не увидишь его улыбку, не почувствуешь его руку…
— Дима… — вырвалось у Катерины.
Она вдруг почувствовала, как холодеет внутри. Представила. Без его глаз, без его тепла. Без его терпения. Без его любви.
И тут же поняла — она знает, кого любит.
P.S. Иногда, чтобы услышать сердце, нужно просто перестать обманывать себя.
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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The children’s home has been waiting for you for ages! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a trembling voice. The target of my wild indignation was my cousin, Dima. God, how I loved him as a child! Blond hair, bright blue eyes, cheerful nature — that was Dima. …Relatives often gathered around the festive table. Of all my cousins, I singled out Dima. He could spin tales with his tongue like a lace maker and he drew brilliantly. Sometimes he would churn out five or six sketches an evening. I would stare, entranced by their beauty, quietly gathering his drawings and hiding them in my desk. I carefully treasured my cousin’s artwork. Dima was two years older than me. When he turned 14, his mother died—gone so suddenly, she just didn’t wake up… The question arose—what would happen to Dima? Naturally, they first turned to his father, but finding him was no easy feat. He and Dima’s mother were long divorced, and the new family “couldn’t be disturbed.” The rest of the relatives just shrugged: “We have our own families, our own problems.” Turns out, during the day, family is there, but come nightfall, not a soul to be found. So, with two kids of their own, my parents became Dima’s guardians—after all, Dima’s late mother was my dad’s younger sister. At first, I was happy that Dima would be living with us. But then… On his very first day in our home, Dima’s behavior set me on edge. To comfort her orphaned nephew, my mum asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Dima? Don’t be shy, just say.” And Dima immediately replied, “A model train set.” Now, this wasn’t a cheap toy. I was shocked—your mum just died, the most important person in your life, and all you want is a train set? How could you even think of that? But my parents immediately bought him his dream. Then it was, “Buy me a tape player, jeans, a designer jacket…” This was the eighties, mind you, and not only was this stuff pricey, but it was impossible to get. My parents made sacrifices for the orphan, even at our own expense. My brother and I understood and didn’t complain. …When Dima turned sixteen, he discovered girls. And he wasn’t afraid to show his affection. Worse yet, he started making advances toward me—his own cousin. But as a sporty girl, I skillfully dodged his unwelcome attention. We’d even come to blows. I would cry and cry. I never told my parents—they didn’t need the heartache. Kids don’t talk about such things. After I fended him off, Dima wasted no time turning to my friends, who actually competed for his attention. …But Dima was also a shameless thief. I remember my piggy bank: saving on school lunches to buy presents for my parents, only to find it empty one day! Dima denied everything—didn’t bat an eye, didn’t blush, just outright lied. It broke my heart. How could he steal while living under our roof? He was wrecking our family from within, but Dima really didn’t understand why I was upset. He truly believed everyone owed him. I began to hate him. That’s when I finally screamed at him: “Get out of our family!” I lashed him with my words—said things that can never be taken back… My mum barely managed to calm me. From that day on, Dima ceased to exist for me. I ignored him completely. Later, I learned the other relatives knew what a “character” Dima was—they lived nearby and seen it all. Our family lived across town. Even Dima’s former teachers warned my parents: “You’re making a big mistake. Dima will ruin your other children too.” …At a new school, he met Katy—she loved Dima all her life. She married him straight out of school. They had a daughter, and Katy put up with his lies and cheating without protest. As they say: single life is hardship, married life is double. Dima joined the Army, stationed in Scotland. There, he started another family—he somehow managed it during leave. When his service ended, he stayed in Scotland. He had a son there. Katy, not hesitating, went after him and, by hook or by crook, brought him back home. My parents never received a word of thanks from cousin Dima—not that they expected it. Now, fifty years on, Dmitri is an active member of the local Anglican church. He and Katy have five grandchildren. On the surface, all seems well, but the bitterness of life with Dima remains… No amount of sugar could ever sweeten it.
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