15

Kharitonov was hot. And tight. With a mighty hand, he scratched his chest under the shirt with buttons torn off after the fight and yawned loudly. Small bearish eyes on a huge head stared blindly into the dirty glass, behind which the whitened Kalinin Square shone. In the light of the lanterns, a drifting snow rushed along the empty paths and benches.

It was uncomfortable for him to sit - like a real bear, he constantly tossed and turned on a round chair, made a lot of sounds - rustled clothes, moved neighboring trays with his elbows, yawned at the top of his voice. Kharitonov was drunk.

From behind appeared a strong mustachioed man.

– Vano, it was only light.

In his hands the man held a tray with two glasses of beer, a sandwich and a bucket of Basket-25 for company.

Kharitonov frowned at the tray, pursed his lips, pressing them to his nose like an elephant. Exhaled. Then he took a glass, sipped about a third.

“Grey, why the hell did you drag me here?

So everything is closed right now
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