Вино из одуванчиков. Повесть и рассказы

“Stay right there, Mr. Lonely One, and scare yourself.

We’re going to the show no matter what! Enough’s enough.

the popsicles in melting puddles of lime and strawberry where they fell

Douglas jerked his head, stared at them as if they were I. not there. His mouth moved. He gave a bleating sound. Then, · silently, he whirled about and ran. He ran silently up the distant hills into the warm darkness.

Lavinia examined her watch as if it was a thousand miles away on an arm and wrist grown impossibly distant.

It was a night in summer in this town of fire in the air, in the cheeks, in the heart, your eyes full of the glowing and shutting-off color of fireflies.

“It’s like December. I need a sweater,” said Francine,

“That don’t sound like no happy ending to me.”
“A good night’s sleep, or a ten-minute bawl, or a pint of chocolate ice cream, or all three together, is good medicine, Doug.

“Some afternoon in 1985 or 1990 a young man named Tom Smith or John Green or a name like that, will be walking downtown and will stop in the drugstore and order, appropriately, a dish of some unusual ice cream. A young girl the same age will be sitting there and when she hears the name of that ice cream, something will happen. I can’t say what or how.

“We don’t seem to have much time now.”