Struggle: The Path to Power - Владимир Андерсон

— Do I have to talk you into it? — she asked sincerely and a little resentfully.

— Natash, I really don't want to — Misha hasn't eaten anything in almost 24 hours, but "taking" food from anyone, much less her, would be a crime.

— Stop it. I know you haven't eaten anything.

— Oh, come on. It's no big deal.

— You haven't eaten, and I'm missing a whole pot of soup. Let's go!

— Uh, I, uh.

After that she was tired of arguing and persuading this altruist, and she took him by the hand and dragged him to her house.

The Maquis changed their location at least once a week, and it was rare for anyone to set up a place to live while in any neighborhood. This was in no way true of Koshkina.

Entering her house Misha didn't understand what was going on: everything was so wellgroomed and cozy. And the most interesting thing was that it was impossible to say why. Maybe because of the towel with the image of a tiger hanging on the wall, maybe because of the tablecloth with roses and big, the size of a fist, ladybugs on the table, and maybe just a rag for shoes at the entrance. A lot of these wonderful little things can't be called luxury in any way — it's more like the humanity of the soul, that's all.

Natasha walked to the clay tile in the far corner of the room. Her movements were strikingly appealing to the eye. Her footsteps were soft and yet very confident. It was as if everything around her was coming to life.

Her military uniform didn't spoil her in the least: black full ankle boots, dark tights, visible only at the knees, and then a green skirt and the same tunic. Black hair in a thin braid in the back.

Seeing all the beauty around him, Misha stood only and cleaned his shoes to no end, not taking a step away from the door.

Turning around the hostess smiled, "So what's stuck in there?"

— I'm just

— Just get out of here.

And for good reason: in addition to everything else, the soup turned out to be exorbitantly delicious. Soup with cabbage and potatoes and everything. Just like the real thing. Just like they used to make it.

Natasha sat next to him, waiting for something. Maybe a compliment. Maybe something more. It was as if she didn't show it, but it was obvious she needed it. The warmth of the person next to her. That was what she wanted most of all right now.

And it was necessary first of all to add warmth to her heart. And then he noticed that he was not eating from an ordinary plate, not from an aluminum plate like everyone else's, but from a wooden plate painted with red paintings, as if the Old Slavonic traditions had been resurrected from nowhere.

— Natash, I didn't notice something right away… These are such beautiful plates.

Her mouth turned up in a smile, but it was obvious that it wasn't what she was expecting,

"Really? You like it? It's khokhloma."

"It's very pretty. Do you carry that with you?" — Misha realized at the same moment that he had asked a disastrously stupid and inappropriate question: during the Maquis crossings, they were allowed to take only the necessary things, but this was just an instruction — you can, take as much as you want, just don't dare to fall behind; it turned into a reproach.

"No, I found it here," Natasha responded so friendly to the question that the tension eased itself. Now he wouldn't have to feel like a stale censor.

Misha decided to smooth over his intemperance entirely, "It's a shame you don't wear them. They're wonderful plates." As soon as he said it out loud, he realized that he had said something nonsense. And he was so incomprehensible to himself that he blushed.

She seemed to like it. She turned her eyes playfully away, turned her head slightly to the side, and opened her mouth slightly: "Did you notice anything else?" She wanted to add, "The way I look at you," but a woman always expects that she doesn't have to say it herself, that a man should notice it himself.

It didn't get to Misha, "I guess not…"

— Mish, what will you do when the war is over?

The presence of the war had no effect on the relationship between the strong and beautiful halves of humanity: they loved, married, raised children… Natasha was a very beautiful girl, and many people tried to court her, but serious relationships did not work out, because she wanted first of all understanding from a man, and even somehow believed in fate. She looked at everyone and realized that she hadn't found the right one yet. Time did not stand still, at her age many people had already given birth and raised not even their first child, but she was still a girl.

And the whole point was that she didn't know what she wanted at all. On the one hand, she didn't want to be with just anyone, but on the other hand, she didn't know for herself what "not just anyone" meant to her. What should she compare it to? She'd never been with anyone, seriously. She'd slept with a few guys, but she hadn't really gotten any joy out of it, and then what? That was the "next thing" she didn't understand at all. All guys had the same thing in their heads, but there must be one who would understand her. Though at the same time again it should be understood that "all men are bastards"… But this is also stupidity: not all of them are bastards… I mean, well, there should be the one who… who… who… who what? Here this very stupid circle was closed again: what should her ideal guy be like? In order to understand what he should be like,