19.07.03
I saw him. Them. Her.
She was sitting on the couch, her back against the armrest, her legs stretched along the seat. He was lying on his stomach facing her, gazing directly into her eyes and stroking her legs. She was dressed in something light. He was wearing something black.
He was stroking her legs, and I desperately wanted to be in her place.
And suddenly, I was.
Now he was stroking my legs, and my hands reached for his hair — I wanted to bury my fingers in it, to trace his cheek, to touch his lips as he slowly crawled toward me, caressing my calves and knees… So tenderly, so thrillingly…
He was saying something very erotic to me with that deep, mind-blowing voice of his, his eyes burning with a soft fire.
I knew that a wondrous encounter was about to happen…
But I woke up.
31.07.03
Today I dreamt of Kolobrodov.
He was standing ankle-deep in hot sand on a beach, apparently about to leave.
His hair was tied back in a ponytail, his body beautifully tanned.
I was watching all of this as if I were watching a 3D television — an astonishing sense of presence, but at the same time, I wasn’t really there.
I rolled my eyes and, with frustration and resentment, cried out, “You bastard. He’s got the sea right there next to him! Aaaaaargh!”
At that moment, I noticed a couple about twenty meters away — a guy and a blonde girl.
The girl seemed to know Kolobrodov. She waved at him and then, as if enchanted, started walking toward him without even looking at her feet.
There was something magnetic about Kolobrodov that was pulling her in.
She approached him and knelt down beside him, one knee sinking into the sand.
Her boyfriend watched helplessly, as if he knew there was nothing to be done once someone had seen Kolobrodov — she would be hypnotized.
And Kolobrodov, not missing a chance to mess with the guy’s nerves, leaned toward the girl as if to kiss her, but was really just looking into her eyes.
It was amusing to watch this scene.
Suddenly, I saw him again, now at a window of a house, around the third or fourth floor.
He and his wife were leaning against the windowsill, their hands dangling outside, looking very cozy.
Later, I dreamt that I was walking down a small street.
The houses looked like those on old-fashioned, soulful postcards.
Orange lights. Small dark windows behind which dim candlelight flickered.
A Christmas idyll.
I knocked on a door with a large iron bell hanging above it.
Lena from the group Tatu opened it.
I stepped inside.
They lived there together — Lena and Yulia.
The room was tiny — a bed, a wardrobe, a table by the window.
Next to it, a kitchen where someone was bustling about.
And then I realized the place was much larger.
This idyllic room was just a cover.
Beyond it were hotel-like rooms where the producer, Lena with her husband, and Yulia lived.
I walked further in, where Lena — calm, completely different — was doing something at the table.
I approached her and said how great their producer was, how brilliantly he had organized everything.
Autumn.
Leaves.
Long coats, black leather boots, high heels.
I met some woman dressed like that.
She was leading me somewhere.
We entered a room.
We wanted to find Maslyakov — to ask him to help us make a KVN (a popular comedy show).
We saw Maslyakov, Makarevich, and other serious figures from our show business sitting at a round table.
We were among our own.
They welcomed us like insiders.
I was at home.
I had two cats.
One — a tiny kitten.
The other — an adult, about a year and a half old.
They were wonderful!
I was setting up a feeder for them.
The kitten had just appeared; he peed into a little hole in the bathroom.
The adult cat was completely domesticated and tame — no need to teach her anything, she was sweet and affectionate, while the little one was jumpy and wild.
I fed them, taught them where to go to the bathroom.
Suddenly, it turned out that the adult cat had two more little hooligans just like the first.
I rejoiced over them like a child.