Asphalt inscription
Vadim Nikolaevich was hurrying to work. Just yesterday his colleagues had congratulated him on receiving his next military rank, and today two large stars of a captain second rank adorned his epaulets.
As they had said yesterday at the jubilarian's noisy table, he had entered that playful age,
when a man is only forty, but he has already managed to cool down sufficiently to the charms of his pretty better half, and would not mind pressing to his curly chest some cute little girl, of whom there was no shortage in this large seaside city.
Walking to work in the morning, Vadim Nikolaevich suddenly saw a chalk inscription on the asphalt by the wall of a house: "Sveta!
I love you more than life!".— Wow! Look how far he's gone, the little devil," thought the officer, not doubting the authorship of a boy. He even imagined how late in the evening, secretly, under the light of a street lamp, that boy, sticking out his tongue, painstakingly wrote this inscription, the unfortunate knight of unrequited love.
But to Vadim Nikolaevich, experienced in love, from the height of his forty years, such self-sacrifice seemed excessive. He only snorted condescendingly and walked on.
In the hustle and bustle of the day, the officer forgot about this inscription until he stumbled upon it at lunchtime, on his way to the canteen.
— Look at that. Still in love," the officer smiled and decided to drop by his acquaintance's place in the evening.
Tamara Mikhailovna, narrow-hipped, flat-chested, with almond-shaped eyes, pleased him, and the nights spent at her place (at home they were recorded as "duty") constantly beckoned him.
Tamara was 18 years younger than his wife, educated, emancipated, and sufficiently experienced in love. Every time, giving herself to him, she would come up with something new. But she always liked it when he took her by force. There was a rumor that once a soldier had raped her, and it seemed these memories stirred her soul. When he, exhausted, couldn't finish for a long time, Tamara, taking advantage of being much lighter than him, would jump on him, wrapping her legs around his buttocks, and he, supporting them with his palms, standing, would impale her with incredible force. In these moments, something beastly awoke in him, rooted in the primitive, unknown, wild...
His partner felt this and gave herself to him in these moments selflessly, almost losing consciousness.
Vadim reveled in love with her, but a time would come when she would begin to bore him. Again he wanted something new. It's not for nothing they say every man dreams of a harem. Then he would switch to his twenty-year-old secretary Zina, who adored him, constantly waited for him, was wildly jealous of "cross-eyed" Tamarka, and, having gotten him, would scream in bed from an excess of surging feelings, marveling at his inventiveness in sex. She kissed him hard, deliberately leaving hickeys on his neck, drank champagne with him as a pledge of friendship, was not shy about performing a belly dance naked in front of him, but in the morning, getting out of bed, she would blush bashfully and demand that he turn away. Once dressed, she would switch to the formal "you" with him, and at work, entering his office, she would attentively listen to the boss's instructions and unfailingly carry them out precisely and on time.
Her miniskirt, tightly hugging her buttocks, and her blouse open at the chest excited him so much that he often had the desire to immediately lay her down on the sofa, but he knew that Zinochka, who was scrupulous in this regard, would never stoop to that at work. In Vadim's absence, his deputy once tried to grope her, but immediately received a ringing slap. Therefore, many drooled at the sight of the sexy Zinka, but everyone knew that the secretary's heart belonged only to the boss. She had everything: the beauty of a natural blonde, youth, passion, love, adoration, and dog-like devotion to the boss. He liked all this, but it didn't make his blood boil. He was flattered by her reverence for him, as for a god, and he rewarded her for it with the subtleties of love and the variety of sex.
Tamara was colder than Zina, but beckoned him more. Her intellect allowed them to be equals. With her, he found not only physical but also moral satisfaction. He often listened to her advice, as Tamara worked at the fleet headquarters, knew a lot, and could suggest the right way out of the most critical official situation.
And so Vadim Nikolaevich counted his days, believing he lived a full-blooded, happy life, without complexes, stress, or problems. It was just that this damned inscription on the asphalt for some reason suddenly got stuck in his brain. After all, he had stumbled upon it again on his way to work. Now Vadim Nikolaevich stopped and for some reason began to examine it more carefully.
— But he really is in love," he thought, feeling annoyance that he himself had never truly experienced this feeling.
During the lunch break, he himself went to that spot to read this inscription again. But the asphalt was clean. Apparently, the janitor considered it a violation of cleanliness and washed it away. It seemed to Vadim Nikolaevich that something had hardened in his chest, to the right of his heart.
At night, embracing Tamara in bed, he, casually, told her about this inscription, mocking the boy. His mistress fell silent, then abruptly threw her slender legs over him and sat on the edge of the bed. He stroked her bare back and suddenly heard a sob.
What's wrong, Tom? — he pulled her to him.
Get off! A kid confesses his love to his girl, and you?!..
They fell silent. For some reason, he became scared. Indeed, how many times had he come to this cozy apartment, how many glasses had been drunk here, how many cigarettes smoked, how many words said about anything, only not about love. Even after stormy sex sessions, they did not mention their feelings...
That morning Vadim Nikolaevich was walking to work, glancing warily at the asphalt. For some reason, he really didn't want this inscription to appear again, as a reproach to him. And then he saw it again. The unfortunate lover, with the persistence of the doomed, continued to appeal to the feelings of his beloved. Now Vadim Nikolaevich stood over this inscription for a long time. It became painfully clear to him that he was not living right, not doing the right thing, that somewhere here, nearby, another world existed, more honest, just, beautiful, unknown to him. He began to understand that the sad Tamara, little Zina, and the other women with whom fate had briefly brought him together, most of whose names had already faded from his memory, none of them had brought him real happiness, just as he had not given it to them. He realized that he did not know what this boy, writing on the asphalt, knew about real love. His inscription beckoned and frightened with the unknown. Vadim Nikolaevich did not yet know that when he left the service, in a distant, sunny southern city, he would finally meet the one he would love ardently and selflessly in his silver fifty, like this boy at fifteen. And this real, pure, strong love would turn his soul inside out, dry up his heart, poison his brain with the torments of doubts and disappointments, and for the first time place him between family duty and an irresistible feeling for his beloved woman. This love would allow him to drink the cup of extraordinary happiness and know the taste of the bitterness of disappointments, when he would feel himself extraordinarily happy and deeply unhappy.
He stood over this inscription and did not yet know all this, did not know that the hour would come when he too would want to write the same words on the asphalt under his beloved's window.