Sunday hit the apartment by a hurricane. From the morning, Galina Mikhailovna was in the rooms as a stung bee. She moved the chairs, wiped the crystal glasses, loudly commanded the placement of the plates.
“Oksana!” she shouted from the living room. “Why aren’t the napkins lying down the fan?” It is necessary to lay out the fan. And remove your home slippers from a prominent place, they spoil the interior. We have a high-level reception today.
Oksana, dressed in comfortable jeans and a cashmere turtleneck, silently watched this circus. She sat on the ottoman in the hallway, slowly drinking coffee. She didn’t want to interfere.
Bogdan was dressed up for the reception. He put on a ironed shirt and trousers, tightly stretched out from the hearty life of the thigh, and then generously watered himself with cologne, the smell of which resembled a mixture of coniferous refresher air and burnt sugar. The husband walked around the apartment, laying his hands behind his back, and trained in front of the mirror the expression of the face of a successful but deadly millionaire.
