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Yuri Vynnychuk
with which he surrounded
herself from every direction
like warning flags; overall,
her entire wardrobe, which
was designed to hide all the
protuberances of her body
like a nun, was a warning
flag, because she was waiting
for “serious relationships;”
“flirting didn’t interest her,”
but “Mr. Myrko is a very
pleasant person,” “you can
trust him,” “it seems to me
sometimes that we’ve known
each other for a really long
time” – and a long, promising
smile, one more little flag
that began to gleam on the
horizon, more, with a telling
caution: “No one, no one, no
one – just him alone.” Yarosh
looked at her palewhite arms,
covered with fine little red
strands of hair, and began to
imagine her legs, maybe just
as hairy, and this even elicited
the desire in him to research
this continent not studied by
anyone yet with all its hidden
nooks; just the fact that he
had far too little free time
saved him from that research,
so just going for coffee with
her was entirely sufficient to
sustain friendly relations and
to acquire information about
the arrival of new books.
Once when he finally went
to sleep long past midnight,
leaving his papers on the
kitchen table, which late in
the evening served as his
office, and in the morning
finding a hot frying pan on
his papers spattered with
grease, fromwhich his father-
in-law was scarfing down an
omelet, liberally covered with
scallions, blocking himself
from the world with his
newspaper, this turned out
to have been the last straw
for him. With unceremonious
boldness, which he had
never dared before, but
with an obliging “excuse
me,” he plucked his papers
from under the frying pan,
shook them over the table in