Jeverje

I don't know if the house on Gagarin Street where Zheverzheev's haberdashery used to be is still standing. Lenka told me about it, and later bought fabric there for a cornflower dress (the one that Grandma Maria embroidered with green flowers with a cross, and I myself - with small ruffles). The old shopkeeper-magician pushed aside the crepes and poplins that hung from the rolls laid out on top of the shelves, quickly flipped through the crimplenes - he knew that this shaggy bride in worn jeans would not be happy with such a fashionable thing. It seemed that there was no house at all, just some dimensions filled with dresses, gauze, buttons and pins that Zheverzheev himself brought before the Red Revolution. And we kept moving from dimension to dimension, he knew that this was not mine either, and that would not suit for the wedding, but he showed and showed and what a pleasure it was to look at, touch, listen to the rustle - magic. But that's it, the last shelf, I almost agreed to a thin snow jacquard, but at the last moment I didn't want to - it was more worthy of a ceremonial apron - the magician sighed with relief and opened a curtain, unfolded a roll - it was just steam over water! Light as a breath of silk crepe de chine - and still goosebumps from that magic. Like a theater and a play with a phenomenal ending. And much cheaper than those crimplenes. Thank you, magician! /V. Trunova/