Don't be born beautiful

In August 20…, Vovik Kazangapov, a medalist from Orsk's Fourth School, found a new reincarnation. What used to be Vovik enrolled in a university in the capital, began living a truly adult life, and officially became known as Volodya. That's how Vovik, that is, Volodya, introduced himself to his new acquaintances, of whom he now had many more than old ones.

cockroaches and the old mouse Methodievna, whom he fed chips. Work was also quickly found: Volodya got hired to stick up various advertising flyers. It wasn't too hard and not too profitable, but he wasn't striving for more yet.

Somehow settling in, Volodya began to check out the new crowd. First and foremost, he was naturally interested in the girls.

There were many of them in the group—more than half. Needless to say, the year started tough: outside, Moscow overwhelmed Volodya, noisy and intrusive, and at the university, the flower garden finished him off, sparkling with half-covered charms. September was hot, the "Progress" air conditioners weren't working, and the flower garden wasn't concerned with complexes.

Soon Volodya figured out that this flower garden, like all others, was divided into three categories. The first consisted of professional beauties—about 4 or 5 of them. The second was, in general, no uglier than the first, but noticeably inferior in professionalism. Finally, the third was inhabited by gray mice and those adjacent to them.

Volodya quickly lost interest in the first category—due to both low availability and weakly expressed signs of a brain—and focused on the second. There were beautiful, shapely specimens there, not squandering themselves left and right, and the presence of a brain in them was far more likely. Or maybe not.

Somewhere between the second and third categories were individuals whose brains were clearly overdeveloped—the "botanical garden," also known as the "colony of smooth-haired nerds." Apparently, in childhood, they were drilled with the idea that learning is light, and makeup is such darkness that no prayers can save you. Otherwise, Volodya couldn't explain such criminal, as he considered it, neglect of their femininity.

One botanical individual was especially characteristic. It seemed she stood out from this company somehow, though Volodya couldn't understand exactly how. She looked hardly less nightmarish than all of them: some worn-out jeans, figure-hiding overalls, glasses covering half her face, a hippie scarf on her head, and, of course, zero makeup. The only thing that distinguished her from other nerds was her delicate, clear skin, visible where her face peeked out from under the glasses. Against the backdrop of typical botanical acne, this was perhaps strange.

Her name was none other than Agrafena. She was immediately nicknamed the Countess, and they tried addressing her that way, but she didn't respond. Later, Volodya noticed another difference: the Countess didn't move like an elephant, like other nerdy girls, but normally, even gracefully. Not, of course, like the wiggly butts of the first group, but she didn't hunch over like Quasimodo either.

He tried talking to her this way and that, but each time it ended with the feeling that he was talking to a ficus. The Countess had no special features—no facial expressions, no voice, no mannerisms. Despite all this, she evoked in him… not exactly interest, but perhaps curiosity. She herself also glanced at him furtively.

Volodya didn't understand where this strange attraction came from: the group was full of far more intriguing creatures, whom Vaska Pulyuy, his newly-made friend, loved to discuss with him:

— "Look at those tits! You look—and your balls sweat!"

Volodya agreed, though there weren't so much tits as the skill to expose and present them. Of course, he didn't discuss the Countess with Vaska—he wouldn't have understood. And Volodya himself didn't understand anything.

One day, he and Pulyuy were chatting on the windowsill in the toilet, by an open window. The heat hadn't subsided, and there was a severe lack of air.

— "So, you see, here's the thing…" Pulyuy drawled. Volodya listened silently (he generally preferred listening to talking).

And then a strange thing happened. In the open window sash, where Volodya was looking, a girl of some extraordinarily fairy-tale appearance suddenly appeared, like an elven princess or a fairy.

Volodya was struck by goosebumps. The next second, he already understood—"reflection"—but the goosebumps continued to race across his body. In tune with them, thunder rumbled somewhere (or some other distant bang—who knows what could be thundering in this Moscow).

The girl took hold of her dark locks, which disappeared somewhere beyond the edge of the window, and began combing them, like a mermaid.

Volodya finally realized what was going on. Nearby, around the corner of the building, was the women's toilet. It wasn't visible from here, but its window was reflected in the open sash. Well, it reflected clearly: behind the glass was a dark wall, the sun was shining from behind—it turned into a real mirror. The girl, like them, had sat on the windowsill, thinking no one could see her. It seemed as if Galadriel herself had descended from the halls of Lothlórien into the local shithouse…

There was something very, very familiar about her.

"Shshit!…" Volodya silently drew out, peering into the glass.

— "… So, you see, that's how it is…" Vaska persisted. "Hey! What, you spaced out or something?"

— "Huh?…" Volodya jerked. "Listen, Pulyuy. Remember you lost to me at chess on Tuesday?"

— "So?" Vaska darkened.

— "Bagels! Go get beer for two."

— "What, in the toilet?!"

— "Why? We'll go outside. Go on—one foot here, the other there. I'll meditate for now."

— "Lazy animal!" declared Pulyuy, reluctantly climbing down from the windowsill.

When the door slammed behind him, Volodya sighed with relief and turned to the window. Galadriel combed her locks, pulled them into a tight bun, tied on a hippie scarf… Sat for a while just like that, staring into nowhere with moist, saiga-like eyes (they were clearly reflected in the glass). Then she put on her glasses and disappeared.

Volodya left the toilet and slowly, noticing nothing, wandered to the exit, where a displeased Pulyuy was already waiting.

***

After classes, Volodya tailed the Countess.

She was heading to the metro. Volodya kept his distance so as not to be spotted. Why—he himself didn't know. He knew and understood nothing, except that he really wanted to find out and understand everything, and for that, he at least needed to not lose sight of her.

It was unbearably muggy. An inky cloud pressed down on the sky, and from there came a dull rumble, as from a basement.

"It's gonna start now," thought Volodya, not taking his eyes off the Countess. The first heavy drops fell to the ground, and each left a mark on the asphalt like a five-kopeck coin. Their crackle resembled a circus drumroll, when any moment now, just a little more, just a tiny bit…

The air suddenly swelled with moisture, sprouted transparent threads—and the city was covered by a downpour, like under a bell jar. Every second, the downpour intensified, though it seemed there was nowhere left to intensify.

The Countess squealed. Volodya reached for his umbrella, but some force pulled him forward before he could realize what was what, and pushed him into the Countess's view.

— "Aaaa!" Volodya shrieked along with her. "Yeehaw! Eeee!.."

— "Mamaaa…"

— "Wow, that's craaazy!.."

They ran and yelled like crazy calves. The elements suddenly canceled all conventions, and the Countess looked at Volodya and smiled at him as if they had known each other since childhood. She had a piercingly beautiful smile, sparkling through the downpour.

— "Let's go to the bus stop, there's a roof there!" Volodya commanded.

— "Let's!" The Countess ran after him but yelped and stopped.

— "What?"

— "Some kind of hole! Can't see it under the puddle!"

The downpour thundered like artillery, and they had to shout.

— "Give me your hand!"

A wet, hot hand gripped Volodya's palm.

— "Aaay!.."

Volodya whistled: two halves of a burst sandal flew off the Countess's foot.

— "And what do we do now?"

— "Let's go barefoot! Take off the other one!"

The Countess obediently took off her shoes.

— "They won't let me into the metro like this!"

she shouted.

— "Yeeeah… Listen!"

— "What?"

— "I live not far from here! Come to my place! We'll wait it out!"

— "Weeell…"

— "Let's go!" Volodya decisively pulled her by the hand. The Countess dragged along after him.

— "Not so fast! I'm barefoot!"

— "Wow!" Volodya also took off his shoes. "For company!"

The Countess laughed. Volodya laughed too.

It was like a colorful childhood dream. "La-la, la-laaa," sang the Countess, dancing on her tiptoes. Then she took her hand back from Volodya and spun around. A thunderclap crashed from above.

— "Thunder! Rumbled over the roofs, scared all the cats away…" Volodya rasped, imitating Shevchuk.

There wasn't a soul on the street—just them, soaked to the bone, and the ringing gloom pressing the city into the ground. In front of the house, an obstacle awaited them in the form of a dug-up trench, turned into mush.

— "No problem! Forward!" Volodya bravely shouted and stepped into the reddish mush. His foot immediately sank ankle-deep.

— "Aaaa!" the Countess screamed, grabbing Volodya's shoulder. "Aaaa!" and with a squelch, she pulled her feet out of the mud. "We need to roll them up!.."

Pulling up their pants, they climbed in, embracing, into the thick of it and emerged from it in clay "boots" up to their knees.

— "I've dreamed all my life… like this… Mamaaa!…" the Countess whimpered and laughed, examining what her feet had turned into.

— "We need to clean them!… Give them here!" Crouching, Volodya began removing sticky clumps from them.

— "What are you doing, I'll do it myself!" said the Countess, but she didn't resist; on the contrary, she offered her foot to Volodya. It was small and endearing, like a dirty little animal. "Aay, that tickles!"

— "Sooo… Now the other one!"

Her toes wiggled funny, like little worms, as he dug out the clay.

— "What do you like to be called?" Volodya asked as they entered the building.

— "I don't know… At school, I was Fenka, Fenechka. And my mom once called me Glasha…"

— "Can I call you Glasha too?"

— "You can," she nodded. "You can."

They entered Volodya's one-room apartment.

— "Yeeeah…"

— "Phew…"

— "Ohoho…"

For a minute, if not more, they sighed, letting off steam. Then Glasha asked:

— "Will you give me something to change into?"

— "Of course, but I don't have any women's clothes. Everything's big, for me. There was some robe…"

— "Okay. Who showers first?"

— "Good question. Toss a coin?"

— "Let's!"

— "Just kidding, what are you! I'm a gentleman! You go."

— "Thank you!" Glasha flashed Volodya her piercing smile and ran to the bathroom. "Here?"

— "Yeah…"

Wet clothes clung to her, outlining the curve of her hips and breasts. "In there, in the bathroom, it'll be even curvier," Volodya thought gloomily, fiddling with his wet t-shirt…

— "Aaaaaaaaaaa!"

An ear-splitting shriek came from the shower. Volodya ran to the door and, hesitating for half a second, flung it open.

— "Aaaaaa!.."

In the bathtub, a completely naked Glasha was shrieking, and cockroaches were fanning out across the wall—about 10 of them, if not more.

— "I took… and they… right at me…" she whimpered like a little girl.

Volodya armed himself with a slipper and bravely took down the entire army. The victims fell on Glasha, and she shrieked again.

— "Just a sec, just a sec… Sorry about that. Get out for now."

Glasha jumped out of the bathtub and watched as Volodya collected the remains of the cockroach landing with a piece of paper.

— "Done!" he turned to her.

… For a while, they looked at each other. Then Volodya hoarsely asked:

— "The question 'who showers first' is no longer relevant, right?"

Glasha silently climbed into the bathtub. Volodya, turning cold, shed his wet rags and climbed in too.

— "Don't be shy! What, you've never seen naked guys before?"

— "Never. Only in photos, but in real life—no…"

— "What, and you yourself haven't…" Volodya was amazed.

— "Is that so terrible?"

— "No, why…"

He suddenly ran out of words.

It wasn't about them standing naked opposite each other, and Volodya's dick already peeking out of his foreskin, like the nose of a curious animal.

That wasn't it at all.

It was that Glasha without glasses, without a scarf