Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Svyatoslav Loginov

gleamed in response, the boy smiling back in the way that only small children do as they just begin to learn this non-trivial skill, smiling. He even swayed slightly from the exertion, and the stroller immediately rolled forward, drawing its bow-legged operator after it. Taking wide, swaying steps, he nonetheless managed to look back and present Ilya Ilych with another wondrous smile. His mother proceeded after him, without taking Going! Shuffling, more like. Letters down on the asphalt – each twice as long as my step, spray-painted. Soiled the whole town, these bastards. In the old days they would have been tossed in jail already, those artists, devil take them… What’s it say, anyhow? ‘Anna, my love, thank you!’ “Oh jeez, I am sitting across from a maternity ward, aren’t I, it’s just some happy father outdoing himself with these giant letters. Well, if that’s the case, sure, one has to be a human being about that sort of thing. There is another one, frolicking beneath the windows, just look at him go… with a cell phone in hand. What, is he serenading her over the phone? Well what do you know, he is indeed. The wife is probably standing by the window with her phone, listening and looking down at her beloved dancing the jig in his merriment. Or whatever it is they dance now – the Lambada, is it? the slightest notice of the seated old man. “I’ll just catch my breath and keep going.

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