This evening I was sitting in my little room with knitting, looking at the scheme on the screen of my data tablet, accurately copying ornaments from white strings. Two small black kittens were playing nearby me.
Having lost my job of the silly circumstances, I began writing exclamation texts to get little money. Today my feelings were frustrated. My interesting and clever text, I wrote with suffering from each word was rejected by the client, a foolish young girl. Of course, she could refuse me in buying, but I didn't expect such cruelty and insolence. Don't want to recite opinion of my client towards the text, it's better to show my work understanding people. It was a letter to a strange foreigner for erotic site. I almost remember its content. Almost, because the letter was closed from my eyes and copies.
"When I speak about love, my language is coming another. I can be tender, mild, effeminate, sensitive and sexual. I can pull off my little blue dress as a useful close of material to make your erection. Oh... know. Not so quickly.
First I want to listen to your foreign speech about love intrigues, trifles and silly things. It energizes me so strongly..."
No, it's better to get unpleasant 'episode' of my life with cruel girl out off my head and continue knitting.
Yesterday I visited my precious friend Annie. Somewhere Annie was married a translator, who died from blood cancer several years ago. But I met her after she had lost her husband. Annie owned incredible charm and kept some traits of former attraction in senility. She was a friend, who stayed with me despite my losing job. And I valued it. That day Annie was in a good mood and chatted about herbs in tea and my family deeds.
To be honest, I lived in a small room in parents' house, constantly visited by brother's children. Sometimes they were dreadful and made me chatting on them. But mostly we lived alone well. I read them books, made presents, brushed hair and went for a walk with them. Only my mum was always outrageous, because of my "status" of unmarried and unemployed. I understood her, but couldn't help, whatever I did.
We stopped drinking tea and went out. Annie began her long, likable reasoning for listener in my face, that life was the main value, that relationship to life of Eastern people was more mature. She made me proposition to read a clever book about Eastern philosophy, which I accepted with pleasure.
"Of course the life is value, but how we spoil it with absence of something, humiliations, playing on nerves' strings," - though I in my mind, enjoying the rays of the summer sun, all tinges of green and presence of my friend. What to do with my life being outcast, I didn't know. The cost of my texts are very small amount, the hard work with constantly stress situations is a bigger sum of money, but not for buying dwelling. When you have eight nephews, not very young age and five-six problems extra - you're a martyr.
It was cold June. I was knitting a big white napkin. Annie would call it "pretty bourgeoisie". But I thought it was a mean of meditation, a useful work for reaching your goal and viewing result of labour. Maybe it's a very little paid job, but I don't knit for money.
Kittens ran away. I was physically and mentally alone. Tired of work I thought about finish of knitting napkin. Where can I put it? Perhaps, on mum's old wardrobe.
All the personalities of this story are fictitious... Any similarity is only coincidence.