Cirmuļa atklāsmes - īsa pamācība, kā novirzīties no tēmas

Her face was all red, presumably because of the cold.

"I was waiting" she said and sniffled shortly and indifferently.

"Mhm" he mumbled.

"The movie has already begun" she said, "I don't think I want to go and see it now."

He shuffled his feet, and looked aside.

For a moment she stood still. It was clear he wasn't too upset about being late. She felt burning anger growing inside, somewhere between her ribs and spine, and she said: "Look, I don't need this."

Then she turned and walked away. Reservedly.

He remained standing there for a couple of minutes. The realisation that he had hurt her didn't bother him much. Although she could have been a good date. She probably was.

It started snowing. He looked up, the cold touch of the snowflakes woke him up, and he walked away. Calmly.


There was no movie on that night at the Burns cinema.

Mr.Timmy left earlier because of headache, and the boy who was supposed to run the movie fell asleep in his chair behind the projector. The three movie-goers waited in the dark room for half an hour and left.

Misha was never getting enough of sleep. He had always a lot of work to do, small tasks, small money. And the cinema was always so warm. Mr.Timmy wouldn't wake him until the end of the movie and do all the work himself; besides, there wasn't much to do. He had never had any children, and this small boy gave him strange fatherly feelings, which made him want to ease Misha's life. It was always a small thing though he did, like rewarding with a candy for some nonsense task or holding his anger sometimes when the job wasn't done properly. These small things and late-night recognitions of a wasted life and a wasted character drove him ever deeper into the bog of alcohol. Funnily enough, Mr.Timmy was quite lucky in that the cinema was still operating and even getting a little cash out of the few public that came to watch movies.

The Burns cinema had acquired its name by burning nearly to the ground at least once in a decade. It seemed to have gotten into a habit ever since it was burned down the first time by the local guerillas as an act of rebellion against the aristocracy. Of course, in those days it was a very necessary building, representing the local prison, and was burnt down on a regular basis - about a couple of months after each renovation. In fact, the only thing that was left of the original 18th century building was the stone foundation. The pieces of stone, greened by the moist air, shone majestically when one opened the basement door, revealing smooth stone-plated floor and rough walls with heavy black iron rings, which once had taken the baron's prisoners' last curses. To put it shortly, it was a great place for children to play.

Surprisingly, the building always sold quickly to the next owner, who would then again run some business there until the next fire. The place had up to now seen such enterprises as restaurants, bookstores, barber's shops and even a marriage office turn to ashes. Mr.Timmy had had a fairly neat concrete block structure built, with a handsome floor-to-ceiling glass lobby, a daring challenge to fire. The previous owner Martha Gray Willows, on the contrary, had chosen a far less expensive option - a small wooden house built more or less in the centre of the foundation. It endured seven months before giving in to tradition.

But then again, Martha didn't bat an eye when it burnt down. She was a childless widow, and the Burns was her husband's last gift - to as if secure her future. He was suffering from tuberculosis and was quite aware of the near termination of his life subscription, so he spent his savings on this rather cheap investment. After the routine fire, she settled her accounts in the town, and on the very day of selling the place, she left for Mexico to visit her nieces.