Stupid genius
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God, she’s whining again. Her whole life complaints and envy. Poor woman my mother.
“I think you’re right, “ Dad agreed, placing washed fruit on the table. “ I’d run from such a person. But you can’t. She is your closest relative. I wish I could take you far from all this. Maybe to a resort? Turkey, Ephesus? Maybe we’d dig up something new there, huh?.. And I think we should spend more time with the girls. Especially Anya Junior. She’s going through a hard time before university, moving. Completely alone.“
Honestly, my father increasingly disappoints me. I stopped eavesdropping at that point.
All week I tried to talk to my aunt. Sometimes she returned early morning and then slept a long time. Sometimes she came at noon, but I was at classes, and Mom was at work. Evenings were useless: Mom came home with bags of groceries, clattering pots and pans, rustling bags, cooking, and washing dishes, making noise as if deliberately. The rest of the time, Aunt Anya sat on her phone. Maybe urgent work she is, after all, a doctor of sciences, important person.
I understood everything. My envious mom thought: “How is it? Someone lived for pleasure, enjoyed life, sang, danced, stayed in people’s hearts, changed boys, traveled the world, and even found true love. What an injustice! And I’m a dropout.”
A couple of times, grandparents came during the week. They were truly happy for the younger daughter. Grandma called friends and relatives, showing via video her smiling girl beside her.
To spend the last day with Anya at our place, I canceled all night outings, and we planned the evening together. I was sure the parents would organize a farewell dinner. Mom cooked every day, so this time she would prepare something special. Moreover, there was another reason: twenty years since their own wedding.
But in the morning, Dad made a boring breakfast as usual and announced that he and Mom would go to a restaurant to celebrate their anniversary. How audacious, how selfish! Aunt was leaving when would they see her again? Only Anya Junior was home. She was supposed to have a university meeting but canceled it. Anya The Second had passed all exams and enrolled. We found out the next day. Apparently, she didn’t want to steal the spotlight today.
Returning home, I saw an envelope in the hallway, scribbled in my cousin’s handwriting: “For Mommy.” Apparently prepared for the wedding day. I smirked and asked:
“Hey, Junior! Where’s Aunt Anya?
My cousin was clearly in a mood, grumbled something like, “Here’s your aunt,” and tossed the note on the table, then went into room, slamming the door. The note was crumpled, clearly handled more than once.
“My dears, my beloved, I decided that long goodbyes are tacky and called a taxi to the airport. So we’ll see each other another time. I’ll say now what I’ve long wanted to say… You are the best thing in my life. Kisses, my dears.”
So, Aunt had already left. I called Dad at work to warn him, and he said he knew he ordered the taxi online for Aunt Anya, as she had already exchanged all her rubles. Well… it’s a pity we didn’t talk heart to heart. “You are the best thing in my life” I never heard that from my Mom. “Beloved” maybe, but no more. And why did my cousin get so worked up? Fool.
I was bursting with curiosity about what was in little Anya’s envelope. Hardly money. Most likely a letter. Since it was just going to be thrown away anyway, why not read it first?
I opened the envelope and there was a photograph of my aunt with a baby. As I understood, it was right after the birth of her daughter. Aunt looked like a very gentle and loving mother, completely focused on her child: she gazed at her with eyes full of genuine love.
I wanted to give this crumpled letter to my cousin so she could keep it as a long-lasting memory, since she rarely sees her mother. I cracked open the door and heard quiet, bitter crying. Like a little child weeping softly, burying her face in a pillow, hoping someone would hear, come, and comfort her. But I even felt a little pleased to see her like that a kind of payback for all her snobbery. I wanted to go in and shout: “What are you sulking for?”
If I were in her place my mom would have definitely rushed over and started hugging me, even if I had been at fault. Well, that’s my mom not hers. My mother has absolutely no backbone. Boring. Uninteresting.
Stunning beauty and lucky guy
With a weary flick of his hand, Anton tore the cellophane off a fresh box of teabags. He opened it, took a quick sniff. Then he set the kettle on the stove. Sat down to wait. If he wandered off into the other room and missed the steam, he’d end up burning this kettle too. He really needed to buy one with a whistle.
His wandering gaze landed on the box of tea. On the inside of the lid there was a long inscription. Reluctantly, Anton picked it up and muttered:
“If I have to read one more line about a ‘rich and vibrant berry flavor’ or ‘exquisite notes of citrus,’ I’ll dump the bags into a jar and toss this box straight in the trash.”
For two years Anton had worked at an ad agency, crafting supposedly original slogans and product descriptions. They didn’t sell too well. “Win a romantic weekend for two in Paris…” he read on a sticker, sighing deeply. “What a cheap trick.”
Just then the kettle whistled and right on cue, the alarm clock joined in. The time between Sunday evening and Monday morning always seemed to vanish without a trace.
“Lada, would you be so kind as to take this coconut and pretend you’re drinking from it?”
“This one? But it doesn’t even have a hole… how am I supposed to drink?” the girl asked in a smooth, velvety voice and laughed.
The photographer exchanged a glance with his assistant: Another beautiful fool. But, to be fair, stunning.
The scene was unfolding in the photo studio of a modest advertising agency.
Anton briefly tore his eyes from the monitor, looked at the model you saw:: a tall brunette with a corseted waist, a slightly upturned nose, gray eyes, a small mouth, and full lips painted scarlet. Three million followers on social media. Twenty million in ad revenue.
“Alright, boys, wipe those dumb looks off your faces. I was joking,” admitted the model, noting with a twinge of pity the narrowness of thought that had just flickered across their expressions.
At that moment Anton walked into the studio, and while the photographers adjusted their equipment, Lada, without the slightest embarrassment, began to study him. She saw a young man of average height and build, his hair neatly parted to the side. A brunette, with eyes either gray or hazel – she couldn’t quite tell behind his glasses.
Apparently, not so long ago in his childhood, he had been a little chubby. One of those obedient boys who stick out their bellies, staring dreamily into space as if pondering some profound question; in his pudgy hand one could easily imagine a melting ice cream cone.
Now he had stretched out, slimmed down a bit, grown stronger yet the image he carried of himself from those old home videos still seemed to weigh heavily on him.
But Lada had no idea: Anton had long since made his peace with it. No, he wasn’t handsome. No, he wasn’t a Don Juan. But he knew his own worth, he knew life, and little could surprise him anymore. At times, he even grew bored.
Suddenly the director of the advertising agency stepped into the studio, and everyone startled out of their thoughts. Like the others, he addressed the model formally. He didn’t try to flirt or play the gentleman. Instead, he fawned over her while secretly despising her, as if there was some profit in it.
How disgusting, Anton thought. Grovels before this girl, but when my mother came in here, he called her “Anton’s mam.” My mother a seasoned teacher, an intelligent, modest, sincere woman, a true professional. And to him she was just “mam.”
After three hours of work, the long-awaited break finally arrived. Only two remained in the studio. Anton sat at the computer, while Lada, unsure what to do with her hands, dropped a tripod. He looked up: the stunning beauty had suddenly turned into a clumsy scatterbrain.
And why hasn’t she left yet? Doesn’t smoke good. Doesn’t eat either? Probably watching her figure.
Anton stood, walked over to the tripod, set it upright again and shot her a reproachful glance. Lada opened her mouth as if to explain herself and, unexpectedly, words tumbled out.
“I’ve never cared about physical strength in men, I work out myself… with dumbbells. But you… you’re surprisingly strong,” she said with natural astonishment, as if it were a thought spoken aloud by mistake.
What kind of game is this? Anton wondered, though he was used to being the butt of jokes.
“I mean, I wouldn’t guess just by looking at you… Oh, no, that’s not what I meant… I didn’t mean to say that. What was I trying to say? I… forgot.”
“No big deal,” Anton shrugged, then reluctantly added, “Would you like some tea?”
He nodded at the open box with the Eiffel Tower on the package.
“No, thanks, I’m on a diet,” Lada joked, though Anton took it literally. “Still… it’s nice. Someone’s going to Paris with their loved one,” she added softly.
At first he didn’t believe her fluster was genuine and turned back to the computer, but then he suddenly felt a manicured hand on his shoulder: Lada had stopped him.
“Do you have girlfriends?” she asked abruptly.
“Girl… friends? Why plural? Do I look like Casanova?”
“Do you know what Casanova’s name literally means?” the model asked, staring straight into his eyes without blinking.
Anton shook his head, unsettled by the sudden tension between them.
“‘New house,’” Lada replied. “So simple, right?”
Looks like they give the models a drink before the shoot these days, Anton thought.
“Funny,” he said, and smiled.
“You’re a computer guy?”
“I’m in advertising. Sometimes web design,” he answered, without much pride.
“Oh, so you came up with that… coconut?” Lada nodded toward the set in front of the green screen, decorated with potted palms and a platter of exotic fruit on an elegant table.
“No.”
“Mmm. And do you know what I used to do?”
“Probably something completely unlike modeling, since you’re making me guess.”
“Exactly. I’m a historian by training. Couldn’t find a proper job, even though I was willing to work honestly. Ended up as a salesgirl in the perfume section. They sold well. Especially the men’s to men. Someone there suggested I start a social media page. And off it went… Eight hundred likes a minute. And I’m not even doing anything special. Look… see!”
Lada desperately wanted to add, “Look at the silliness,” as she snapped a photo of herself against the beige blinds at the window and then showed Anton the result. The number next to the little red heart under the photo climbed by the second.
Anton’s face was lit by the white glow of her smartphone screen. Then he lifted his gaze to her and thought:
All this attention… and for what? For the shell. How easy for some how unreachable for others to become famous and rich just like that. But has she found herself in it? How shallow do you have to be to be satisfied with pressing a button on a phone… Doesn’t she want to be known first and foremost as… well, as a historian, for example?
At the same time, Lada was looking at Anton and thinking:
Wow… I’ve always dreamed of falling for this type ever since childhood: a magical intellectual with beautiful brown eyes he isn’t proud of, hiding them behind glasses, yet utterly captivating. Confident and calm. I just know he’s kind. If I were different, maybe he’d… No. He mustn’t change. Not a bit. Seems he’s shy around me… and the way he looks at me, my God! Could he already be in love? I hope not like everyone else. If he turns out to be the kind, empathetic man I suspect, then… let him not fall for me. Let him just exist.
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