Olya bit off the thread.

- Jeanne, it's you who will sign up for me in the queue for a dress, - rising from her knees, Olga straightened the lace on the corset of the future star and turned around.

A tall thin guy was standing in the dressing room door.

Something inside her twitched sweetly and snapped.

- Artyom Beletsky, - he extended his hand in a mannered manner, and the shirt cuff, pulled up, opened the tattoo around the wrist, in the form of "yin" and "yang" woven together.

- Olga, - the girl's voice trembled when she put her fingers into his warm palm.

- Valeeva, be careful! Beletsky is a well-known heartthrob and in general, - Zhanna leaned as close as possible to Artyom, stretching her full red lips like a duck, - a devourer of young maidens.

Artyom, smiling, carefully looked at Zhanna and adjusted the makeup on her face.

- Ready, girl? He ran his long fingers through the tight curls. - Jeanne, I beg you - text! And work on your lips. I feel like you're swallowing endings.

- You know how to create a mood, Beletsky! Jeanne shrugged her bare shoulders. - Olenka, a present from me. How do you like me?

- Shine! - Olya, once again looking at her creation, crossed Jeanne. - With God! Break a leg!

The actress rolled her eyes and waved her fingertips at them.

- Well, how not to love you, Valeeva? Go to hell! - the rustling of the crinoline in the corridor was accompanied by a patter uttered by a deep contralto.

- So, - Artyom raised an eyebrow, - have you already freed yourself?

- In terms of? Olya looked at Beletsky with interest. - Now I'm going to the hall. I will never miss Vanina Vanini. This is my first work by Stendhal, I put my whole soul into it.

- Well, actually, this is the first work of the author, - Artyom's brown eyes smiled.

- Of course, - the girl shook her blond hair and felt herself blush. - I sewed costumes for Vanina and Pietro Missirilli. The main characters, you know? It is very important for me! I have dreamed about them almost every night for the last month. Their images, historical authenticity, fabric, lace! God, - Olya put her fingers to her lips, stopping herself. - Excuse me, Artyom, I'm talking nonsense.

Beletsky, without looking up, looked at Olga. At how quickly her dexterous hands put sewing supplies into a velvet bag. How she leans towards the fallen thimble, and her short figure in a puffy skirt in the style of the 50s easily bends over in a thin waist, intercepted by a red thong. Lack of manicure on neat fingers. Full, without a trace of lipstick, lips, eyes of the shade of spring foliage and luxurious blond hair.

Artyom glanced at the phone screen.

- Bad luck! There are five minutes left. Now the speech of the master. I'm afraid we won't make it to the hall, - seeing Olga's disappointed look, he hurried to reassure her, - but we'll make it easier, let's go backstage. And let's not hurt anyone!

- Can i? The girl clapped her hands excitedly. - So even better - what if someone needs my help? She shook her bag.

Artyom kept his eyes on Olga’s chest covered with a white T-shirt and, suddenly coming to his senses, nodded.

- Certainly! But I hope that they will play with the buttons torn off. Follow me.

Olya threw a pillow on the sofa in the kitchen and pressed the button on the electric kettle. In the old sideboard of the late great-grandmother Artyom, German porcelain chimed subtly. The girl went to the window and, pushing the heavy curtain to the floor, looked out the window.

The light of the street lamps almost merged with the predawn haze. Very soon, the janitor will sweep the broom a little in their quiet, clean yard, and the first tram will give a signal for a new day.

Olya reached for the window and twisted the latch. How she loved those old wooden frames, uneven window sills, polished by time, brass lion-head curtain holders screwed tightly into the wall back in the days of the New Economic Policy, antique gold fringe on dark green velvet and a bronze chandelier in sparkling Baccarat crystal petals.

For several months now, the girl has been staying with Artyom for the weekend. Everything happened so naturally, as if someone from above directed the process of their rapprochement - a heavenly conductor or a traffic controller of human lives.

And the magnificent Beletsky with his impressive pedigree, and this apartment on the Patriarchs, full of inspiration and ghostly illusions, a well-groomed courtyard with a centuries-old oak in the arms of a cast-iron fence - all this weakened Olya, deprived her of composure and protective forces. Their meetings were secret, which suited both of them. From Friday evening to Sunday evening, Olya gained a feeling of well-being and peace, which her soul demanded more and more often.

Artyom behaved in such a way that there was nothing to reproach him for. Is it possible to blame the air, a summer downpour, or a seething waterfall for something? Beletsky was talented, loved and elusive, like a gust of wind. He needed to return to his home, and that Olga was waiting for him there. But Olga, instead of keeping Beletsky nearby and filling all the space around him, in a strange way existed in parallel, somewhere on a different plane, accumulating solar heat in order to bring down on him a ton of tenderness and love when they met.

Having poured tea leaves into a pot-bellied cup, Olya took the teapot and listened to herself.

Lord, there is nothing better than such an early morning when there is no need to rush anywhere! There will be thick rich borscht for lunch, a fresh crispy baguette and a bucket of sour cream from a farm shop. And Beletsky, having eaten, will again fall asleep for a short while, buried in her knees, and will shudder when Olya accidentally touches his hair with a book. And then they will go somewhere along the evening avenue and return home happy to fall asleep in each other's arms.

"You're a dickhead!" The shrill, shrill voice in my head, as always, appeared so suddenly that my hand trembled. Boiling water fell on the surface of the table, which immediately turned it dark and breathed steam. Olya put the kettle on and sat down on a chair. My heart was pounding, weakness seized my entire body. She grimaced, as if in toothache, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Nothing, you just need to relax and not think for a few minutes. That's it, almost done. Olya took a deep breath and held her breath. Then she exhaled loudly. I felt dizzy, but my heart calmed down and stopped bouncing around like a ping-pong ball.

The girl tiptoed into the bedroom. Realizing that Artyom’s sleep was strong enough, she took off his second shoe. She picked up her coat from the floor and hung it over the back of the chair. Loosening the knot, she pulled off her tie. The collar of the snow-white shirt was stained with lipstick: bright red on one side, cherry-colored on the other. The same cherry stain gleamed greasyly on Artyom's face closer to the neck. Olya rubbed it with her palm in disgust, but Beletsky turned over, muttering with displeasure, and then, like a child, folding his palms under his cheek, he settled comfortably on his side. Olya glanced at the old clock ticking in the corner of the room. After thinking, she took Artyom's mobile phone with her. Covering Beletsky with a woolen blanket, she just as quietly returned to the kitchen.

Olya took a sip of strong tea and fiddled with a spoon in a vase with sugared jam. The thought flashed, lie down for a couple more hours. Her gaze clung to the pillow on the plush cozy sofa several times. But it seems that time was lost, and the girl was drinking tea, looking thoughtfully at Artyom's phone lying in front of her. Its owner was fast asleep, and the phone continued to live its own life - the screen now and then shone from the incoming SMS:

"You are the best!"

"Adore"

"I want to meet you!"

"Call me!"

If jealousy raised its head, then Olga crushed it. Every day of this wonderful life with Artyom was worth its weight in gold.

And, if not for this vile feeling of guilt, a sharp fragment sitting in her heart, Olya would be absolutely happy.