Old school-desk

Old school-desk
The school golf course has almost absorbed all the drops of the morning rain.
The wind sang in the small cracks of our school building. We were the elite, the preforms of the ideal English society. Malachite corridors with many offices, perfect floors, dry, melodic bell, which were announcing the end of classes. Huge doors made of old oak opened onto the street and colorful ribbons of faculty vests stretched up the stairs: yellow - those who studied chemistry, green - students of the botanical faculty. I had an advanced law and jurisprudence class, and although I was formally wearing the red faculty vest with the lion's coat of arms holding a scarlet heart, it was no longer interest to me, instead I diligently collected newspaper clippings with the Wall stock schedule. Street, changed in the yard for inserts with the image of Ford or Chevrolet and diligently smeared hair with grease, achieving a shiny effect of "wet hair". A whole "flock" of us gathered, we stood in front of the mirrors in the women's toilet, since they were all beaten in the men's one, and we were polishing our hair. Someone like me with grease or gel - it was chic, someone added sugar to the water and putting a comb there, stirred the solution with it and applied it to the hair.
 
Those who were simpler did not hesitate to mix the sticky, nasty punch from the school cafeteria with water.
In the evening, almost everyone did this, except of my best friend Oliver, the sun hit him right on the top of his head and gave him bright red hair, which sometimes he hesitated. Both together we had Irish roots.
I remember the school for three things: the parking lot near the gym, where short bags from McDonald’s flew along the asphalt road with yellow markings, the air was filled with the noise of high school cars, the pirate sound of The Beatles and the smell of cheap self-tanning.
 
The second thing which I remember about the school is school canteen. At the entrance there was a banner advertising the upcoming Woodstock 1969 festival in America, a radio room to the left, a panoramic window overlooking Hicks Lake, horribly nasty punch, annoying Oliver, who loves to talk about  how he will go to study in London and the eternal fog covering the emerald golf course.
 
Third, this is ... Emma. Yes, just like that, it's kind of strange that she got a typical gigalo with Irish roots, and not a "nerd" from the senior classes. We sat together at all the lessons, when I made another spelling mistake, she smiled and with a soft, thin hand corrected a defect in my dictation, but I always managed to write in "satisfactorily". She was sitting next to me, reading a fresh book by Jack Kerouac "Dharma Drivers", light, blonde hair fell on her forehead and only lush red lips and the contrast of blue eyes were visible. She understood everything and told it to me, put her hand on my hips and led along the arrows of my trousers to my coal, patent leather shoes. Emma was lovely, all summer she working at the Newcastle fair and making some good money while I was out at my aunt's in the Outskirts of Birmingham on vacation, chasing ducks and eating licorice. I was proud of her, but I never said that. It was hard for me to say goodbye  even for one lesson. She put on a black beret, straightened her wavy, blonde hair behind her ears and looked at me with her mouth slightly open, and penetrating into my soul with blue, like Hicks Lake, her eyes said that she wanted to go with me to the Made in Hollywood concert in May, I was silent , because I was a cool high school student, I even had a leather jacket, but I could not squeeze out an affectionate word for her. She left without waiting for an answer, creaking on the clean washed floor near the anatomy office with her unlaced Converse, sent to her by a package from the States.
As she walked away, after school I went up to my room across the campus, my room was small, for two students, can you guess who lived with me? I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a stocky boy with freckles with deep-set eyes and said: "What she sees in me?", I heard heart-rending laughter from the bathroom and shouted back: "Oliver, go to hell."
The next day I had breakfast, went down to the philosophy office and saw her again in a yellow hoodie with the logo of the local baseball team. I sat down next to her and the most beautiful thing that I felt was her look at myself as I write in my notebook, the smell of her Burberry perfume, which she secretly took from her mother, mixed with the smell of an old school desk.
This day was one of the last before the holidays. I got a bar tattoo of a dagger piercing through the gills of a fish, as my father worked at the Jankis whaling, got into a fight with football fans and smoked in the school hallway. I flew out with a bang and never became the lawyer like my family wanted, sold an expensive graduation suit, invested in stocks on Oliver's advice, and quickly became rich after losing contact with friends.
It took about 50 years, I was already old, grumbled, I had a huge family, a corgi named Welsh and Kamin, as I wanted. I married the daughter of family friends, invested money from stock in a company that made motor oils and tires.
Every day I felt a burning sensation in my chest, but what kind of doctors there can be, I am an old Irishman and a tough nut! Everything went on as usual until a delivery man called me on a rainy afternoon Tuesday and handed me a small box with sharp edges.
There was a package and a letter.
“Hellomy friend, it's me, old Oliver!
In the bag there is your graduation suit, I saw it on some rogue who was distributing newspapers near the metro, I immediately understood that its yours, recognized the name from the tag on the inside pocket, bought it at exorbitant prices and fed him properly. I didn’t pay a visit, thought you wouldn’t recognize me, I’m not red at all, but gray-haired, because you only recognized me at school by my hair. "
Drops dripped onto thin paper, from a letter I learned that Emma's blue eyes had gone out back in 1988.She looked for me, but she never found me, after school she went to Woodstock, hoping to meet me there, but I weren’t there at all.
“She looked for you almost the rest of her life, buddy. Don't look for me, I asked to send my daughter in my will, take care of yourself, your old man. "
I fell on the bed, it was hard to breathe, a fire was burning in my chest, the whole family gathered around, we were waiting for the doctor, there was no time for jokes. My granddaughter’s Clara's boyfriend kept repeating and joking that everything would be okay and we would run together in the morning, but I think he was just rushing to the Manchester United match, only the corgi's eyes filled with pain, he was the only one who understood that this was the end. Sharp pain, the doctor hairbreadth only for 13 minutes, went in, and with an army bearing wrote down the time of death in a notebook, half an hour later I supplemented with my successful black and white photo an incomplete row in the family's album with a genealogical tree, where all our deceased relatives were, at first father, followed by me ...
How did I feel? Of course I heard tears and screams, at first it was scary, but then ... a sharp flash, a school bell, the most delicious punch in the world, annoying Oliver nearby, blue eyes of beautiful Emma, her perfume and the smell of an old school desk ...

Author: Lukyanov V.V.