ТЫЦН-ДЫЦН

Summer ended again, as always, noisily, quickly, and with the taste of caramel melted at midnight. The sand is still warm, but it's already sticking to the memories like sneakers to a dance floor. The music is thumping in my temples as if someone forgot to turn off party mode, and now I have to live with this internal "tyts-tyts" even during my factory shift. Once, everything seemed like a joke, and then the jokes grew up, started demanding alimony and attention. Under the neon lights and laughter, there's a scent of lost freedom from the one who once easily fit into a short skirt and a single phrase, "How about it?" And yet, despite the concrete and everyday life, where the son and wife are yelling, where they dream not of Bali but of a weekend without overtime, that very beat continues to play in my head. Just as silly, sweet, and honest as the first "I love you."