Book: Whether you love Brahms?

For the first time in her life she was enjoying this terrible joy to love someone you will inevitably be forced to pass through the flour.

He stood still, glancing at her. She smiled slightly.
- Good-bye, dear.
He leaned toward the car window.
- I can't live without you, Paul.
With a jerk she started off to the face did not notice tears, tomanivi her eyes. As an afterthought she included "janitors" and she laughed bitterly this ridiculous gesture.

Only when Simon called that night at her door and she saw his dark tie, his intense eyes, this exultation, breaks in every gesture, it is a confusion similar to that which covers the person spoiled beyond measure with life and suddenly received another inheritance, she wanted to share his happiness. The happiness that she gives him: "Here am I, my body, my warmth, my tenderness, I don't need them, but entrusting them with your hands, I may again be able to find in them a delight".

At the same time she knew that it was pointless to continue this conversation in the arms of this boy, standing in the rain, standing lost his mind lovers, but couldn't move.

He stepped toward her, she smiled, and suddenly came the moment a fullness of life such calmness that he even closed his eyes. He loves her. He took everything, everything that will happen if it will happen because of it, still will not be worse.

She was just afraid, she instinctively waited for him to come and forced her to accept his love. She was unbearable and monotonous for winter days, a string of all the same streets that caused her a lone to get to and from work, this phone is a traitor - she every time regretted the phone off the hook: so alienated and ashamed voice was face, and, finally, longing for the distant summer that will never return, - all led to indifferent lethargy and demanded at any price that "something happened."

She was afraid of only one thing, Simon would not try to hold her hand during the concert; feared the more that foresaw this; and Paul, when he fulfilled her expectations, was always seized with a vague longing. And this is why she loved Roger. He never lived up to her expectations, always, so to speak, was out of the regular program.

Fall slowly and gently seeped into the heart of Paul. Wet, red, already half trampled leaves, clinging to each other, gradually mingled with the earth.

It was very appropriate for psychoanalysis - so, at least, argued his mother.

"Do you like Brahms?" She still stood at the open window, the sun hit her eyes, blinded for a moment. And this short phrase: "do you Like Brahms?" - suddenly opened up before her vast abyss of the forgotten: all that she forgot all the questions that she deliberately avoided to set for ourselves. "Do you like Brahms?" If she loved anything but yourself and your own existence? Of course, she said she loves Stendhal, knew his likes. That's the key: know. Maybe she only knew that she loves Roger. Just well learned the truth. Good as milestones. She wanted someone to talk to, as has happened in twenty years.

Roger always made among people of slight confusion, so it seemed untamable, and therefore desirable for most women.

It's like she about something asked, I asked vaguely, but he keenly felt and asked that he not could give her, never could. Of course, would have to stay there and spend the night with her: there is still the best means to calm anxiety women.

Yes, he was in own way honest. But is honesty is not whether the only conceivable honesty in our confused life, to love enough to give the other happiness. Even refusing, if necessary, from his most cherished theories.

Simon raised his head and looked at Roger, barely snaking their way between the tables.
- That's a man, he said. - Ah! What? A real man. I hate all the big guys, masculine, sane...
- People are much more complicated than you think, dryly replied Paul.