Romantic stories about love. Short love stories Short romantic stories

Can short stories about love reflect all the faces of this versatile feeling? After all, if you look closely at trembling experiences, you can notice tender love, serious mature relationships, destructive passion, selfless and unrequited attraction. Many classics and modern writers turn to the eternal, but still not fully understood theme of love. It’s not even worth listing the huge works that describe this exciting feeling. Both domestic and foreign authors intended to show the quivering beginning not only in novels or stories, but also in small stories about love.

Variety of love stories

Can love be measured? After all, it can be different - to a girl, mother, child, native land. Many little stories about love teach not only young lovers, but also children and their parents to express their feelings. Anyone who loves, has loved, or wants to love, would do well to read Sam McBratney's very touching story "Do You Know How Much I Love You?" Just one page of text, but so much sense! This little love story of a bunny teaches about the importance of admitting your feelings.

And how much value there is in a few pages of Henri Barbusse’s story “Tenderness”! The author shows great love, causing boundless tenderness in the heroine. He and She loved each other, but fate cruelly separated them, since She was much older. Her love is so strong that the woman promises to write letters to him after breaking up so that her loved one will not suffer so much. These letters became the only connecting thread between them for 20 years. They were the embodiment of love and tenderness, giving strength to life.

In total, the heroine wrote four letters, which her beloved received periodically. The ending of the story is very tragic: in the last letter, Louis learns that She committed suicide on the second day after breaking up, and wrote these letters to him with a view to 20 years in advance. The reader does not need to take the heroine’s action as a model; Barbusse simply wanted to show that it is important for a selflessly loving person to know that his feelings continue to live.

Different sides of love are shown in R. Kipling's story "Arrows of Cupid" and in Leonid Andreev's work "Herman and Martha." The story of Anatoly Aleksin’s first love, “Home Essay,” is dedicated to his youthful experiences. A 10th grade student is in love with his classmate. This is the story of how the hero’s tender feelings were cut short by the war.

The moral beauty of lovers in O. Henry's story "The Gift of the Magi"

This story by a famous author is about pure love, which is characterized by self-sacrifice. The plot revolves around a poor married couple, Jim and Della. Although they are poor, they try to give each other nice gifts at Christmas. To give a worthy gift to her husband, Della sells her gorgeous hair, and Jim traded his favorite valuable watch for a gift.

What did O. Henry want to show with such actions of the heroes? Both spouses wanted to do everything to make their loved one happy. The true gift for them is devoted love. Having sold things dear to their hearts, the heroes did not lose anything, because they still had the most important thing - priceless love for each other.

A woman's confession in Stefan Zweig's story "Letter from a Stranger"

The famous Austrian writer Stefan Zweig also wrote long and short stories about love. One of them is the essay “Letter from a Stranger.” This creation is imbued with sadness, because the heroine loved a man all her life, but he didn’t even remember her face or name. The stranger expressed all her tender feelings in her letters. Zweig wanted to show readers that real selfless and sublime feelings exist, and you need to believe in them so that they do not become a tragedy for someone.

O. Wilde about the beauty of the inner world in the fairy tale “The Nightingale and the Rose”

A short story about O. Wilde’s love “The Nightingale and the Rose” has a very complex idea. This fairy tale teaches people to value love, because without it there is no point in living in the world. The Nightingale became the spokesman for tender feelings. For their sake, he sacrificed his life and his singing. It is important to find out love correctly, so as not to lose a lot later.

Wilde also argues that you don’t need to love a person just for their beauty, it is important to look into his soul: perhaps he only loves himself. Appearance and money are not the most important thing, the main thing is spiritual wealth, inner peace. If you only think about appearance, it can end badly.

Trilogy of Chekhov's stories "About Love"

Three small stories formed the basis of A.P. Chekhov's "Little History". They are told by friends to each other while hunting. One of them, Alyohin, spoke about his love for a married lady. The hero was very attracted to her, but was afraid to admit it. The characters' feelings were mutual, but not revealed. One day, Alyohin finally decided to confess his affection, but it was too late - the heroine left.

Chekhov makes it clear that you don’t need to close yourself off from your real feelings, it’s better to have courage and give free rein to your emotions. He who encloses himself in a case loses his happiness. The heroes of this short story about love themselves killed love, sank to base feelings and doomed themselves to misfortune.

The heroes of the trilogy realized their mistakes and are trying to move on; they do not give up, but move forward. Perhaps they will still have a chance to save their souls.

Kuprin's love stories

Sacrificial love, giving all of oneself without reserve to a loved one, is inherent in Kuprin’s stories. So Alexander Ivanovich wrote a very sensual story “The Lilac Bush”. The main character of the story, Verochka, always helps her husband, a design student, with his studies so that he receives a diploma. She does all this in order to see him happy.

One day Almazov was making a drawing of the area for a test and accidentally made an ink. In place of this blot he drew a bush. Verochka found a way out of this situation: she found money, bought a lilac bush and planted it overnight in the place where the blot appeared on the drawing. The professor checking the work was very surprised by this incident, because before there was no bush there. The test was submitted.

Verochka is very rich spiritually and mentally, and her husband is a weak, narrow-minded and pathetic person compared to her. Kuprin shows the problem of unequal marriage in terms of spiritual and mental development.

Bunin's "Dark Alleys"

What should short love stories be like? The small works of Ivan Bunin answer this question. The author wrote a whole series of short stories under the same name with one of the stories - “Dark Alleys”. All these little creations are connected by one theme - love. The author presents the reader with the tragic and even catastrophic nature of love.

The collection "Dark Alleys" is also called the encyclopedia of love. Bunin in it shows the contact of two from different sides. In the book you can see a gallery of female portraits. Among them you can see young women, matured girls, respectable ladies, peasant women, prostitutes, and models. Each story from this collection has its own shade of love.

Dear friend! On this page you will find a selection of small or rather even very small stories with deep spiritual meaning. Some stories are only 4-5 lines, some a little more. Every story, no matter how short, reveals a larger story. Some stories are light and humorous, others are instructive and suggest deep philosophical thoughts, but all of them are very, very sincere.

The short story genre is notable for the fact that in a few words a big story is created, which invites you to stretch your brains and smile, or pushes the imagination into a flight of thoughts and understandings. After reading just this one page, you may get the impression that you have mastered several books.

This collection contains many stories about love and the theme of death, so close to it, the meaning of life and the spiritual experience of every moment. People often try to avoid the topic of death, but in several short stories on this page it is shown from such an original side that it makes it possible to understand it in a completely new way, and therefore begin to live differently.

Happy reading and interesting emotional experiences!

“Recipe for female happiness” – Stanislav Sevastyanov

Masha Skvortsova dressed up, put on makeup, sighed, made up her mind - and came to visit Petya Siluyanov. And he treated her to tea and amazing cakes. But Vika Telepenina didn’t dress up, didn’t put on makeup, didn’t sigh - and simply came to Dima Seleznev. And he treated her to vodka with amazing sausage. So there are countless recipes for women’s happiness.

"In Search of Truth" - Robert Tompkins

Finally, in this remote, secluded village, his search ended. Truth sat in a dilapidated hut by the fire.
He had never seen an older, uglier woman.
- Are you - Really?
The old, wizened hag nodded solemnly.
- Tell me, what should I tell the world? What message to convey?
The old woman spat into the fire and answered:
- Tell them that I am young and beautiful!

"Silver Bullet" - Brad D. Hopkins

Sales have fallen for six straight quarters. The ammunition factory suffered catastrophic losses and was on the verge of bankruptcy.
Chief Executive Scott Phillips had no idea what was going on, but shareholders were sure to blame him.
He opened the desk drawer, took out a revolver, put the muzzle to his temple and pulled the trigger.
Misfire.
“Okay, let’s take care of the product quality control department.”

"Once Upon a Time There Was Love"

And one day the Great Flood came. And Noah said:
“Only every creature - in pairs! And for singles - ficus!!!"
Love began to look for a mate - Pride, Wealth,
Glory, Joy, but they already had companions.
And then Separation came to her and said:
"I love you".
Love quickly jumped into the Ark with her.
But Separation actually fell in love with Love and did not
I wanted to part with her even on earth.
And now Separation always follows Love...

“Sublime Sadness” – Stanislav Sevastyanov

Love sometimes brings sublime sadness. At dusk, when the thirst for love was completely unbearable, student Krylov came to the house of his beloved, student Katya Moshkina from a parallel group, and climbed up the drainpipe to her balcony to make a confession. On the way, he diligently repeated the words that he would say to her, and got so carried away that he forgot to stop in time. So I stood sad all night on the roof of the nine-story building until the firefighters removed it.

“Mother” – Vladislav Panfilov

The mother was unhappy. She buried her husband and son, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She remembered them small and thick-cheeked, and gray-haired, and hunched over. The mother felt like a lonely birch tree among a forest scorched by time. The mother begged to grant her death: any, the most painful one. Because she is tired of living! But I had to live on... And the only joy for the mother were the grandchildren of her grandchildren, just as big-eyed and chubby-cheeked. And she nursed them and told them all her life, and the lives of her children and her grandchildren... But one day giant blinding pillars grew around her mother, and she saw how her great-great-grandchildren were burned alive, and she herself screamed from the pain of melting skin and pulled to the sky withered yellow hands and cursed him for her fate. But the sky responded with a new whistle of cutting air and new flashes of fiery death. And in convulsions, the Earth began to stir, and millions of souls fluttered into space. And the planet tensed up in nuclear apoplexy and exploded into pieces...

The little pink fairy, swinging on an amber branch, chirped for the umpteenth time to her friends about how many years ago, flying to the other end of the universe, she noticed a bluish-green small planet sparkling in the rays of space. “Oh, she’s so wonderful! Oh! She is so beautiful! - the fairy cooed. “I've been flying over the emerald fields all day! Azure lakes! Silvery rivers! I felt so good that I decided to do some good deed!” And I saw a boy sitting alone on the shore of a tired pond, and I flew up to him and whispered: “I want to fulfill your deepest wish! Tell me it!” And the boy looked up at me with beautiful dark eyes: “It’s my mother’s birthday today. I want her, no matter what, to live forever!” “Oh, what a noble desire! Oh, how sincere it is! Oh, how sublime it is!” - the little fairies sang. “Oh, how happy is this woman who has such a noble son!”

“Lucky” – Stanislav Sevastyanov

He looked at her, admired her, trembled when he met: she sparkled against the background of his mundane everyday life, was sublimely beautiful, cold and inaccessible. Suddenly, having given her plenty of his attention, he felt that she too, as if melting under his scorching gaze, began to reach out to him. And so, without expecting it, he came into contact with her... He came to his senses when the nurse was changing the bandage on his head.
“You are lucky,” she said affectionately, “rarely anyone survives from such icicles.”

"Wings"

“I don’t love you,” these words pierced the heart, turning out the insides with sharp edges, turning them into minced meat.

“I don’t love you,” simple six syllables, only twelve letters that kill us, shooting merciless sounds from our lips.

“I don’t love you,” there is nothing worse when a loved one says them. The one for whom you live, for whom you do everything, for whom you can even die.

“I don’t love you,” my eyes darken. First, peripheral vision turns off: a dark veil envelops everything around, leaving a small space. Then flickering, iridescent gray dots cover the remaining area. It's completely dark. You only feel your tears, a terrible pain in your chest, squeezing your lungs like a press. You feel squeezed and try to take up as little space as possible in this world, to hide from these hurtful words.

“I don’t love you,” your wings, which covered you and your loved one in difficult times, begin to crumble with already yellowed feathers, like November trees under a gust of autumn wind. A piercing cold passes through the body, freezing the soul. Only two processes, covered with light fluff, already stick out from the back, but even this withers away from the words, crumbling into silver dust.

“I don’t love you,” the letters dig into the remains of the wings like a screeching saw, tearing them out of the back, tearing the flesh to the shoulder blades. Blood flows down the back, washing away the feathers. Small fountains gush out from the arteries and it seems that new wings have grown - bloody wings, light, airy and spraying.

“I don’t love you,” there are no more wings. The blood stopped flowing, drying into a black crust on the back. What used to be called wings are now only barely noticeable tubercles, somewhere at the level of the shoulder blades. There is no more pain and the words remain just words. A set of sounds that no longer cause suffering, that don’t even leave traces.

The wounds have healed. Time cures…
Time heals even the worst wounds. Everything passes, even the long winter. Spring will come anyway, melting the ice in the soul. You hug your loved one, the dearest person, and clasp him with snow-white wings. Wings always grow back.

- I love you…

“Ordinary scrambled eggs” – Stanislav Sevastyanov

“Go, leave everyone. It’s better to be alone: ​​I’ll freeze, I’ll be unsociable, like a bump in a swamp, like a snowdrift. And when I lie down in the coffin, don’t you dare come to me to sob to your heart’s content for your own good, bending over the fallen body left by the muse, and the pen, and the shabby, oil-stained paper...” Having written this, the sentimentalist writer Sherstobitov re-read what he had written thirty times, he added “cramped” in front of the coffin and was so imbued with the resulting tragedy that he could not stand it and shed a tear for himself. And then his wife Varenka called him to dinner, and he was pleasantly satisfied with vinaigrette and scrambled eggs with sausage. Meanwhile, his tears had dried up, and he, returning to the text, first crossed out “cramped”, and then instead of “laying down in a coffin” he wrote “laying down on Parnassus”, because of which all subsequent harmony went to waste. “Well, to hell with harmony, I’d better go and stroke Varenka’s knee...” Thus, an ordinary scrambled egg was preserved for the grateful descendants of the sentimentalist writer Sherstobitov.

"Destiny" - Jay Rip

There was only one way out, for our lives were intertwined in too tangled a knot of anger and bliss to solve everything any other way. Let's trust the lot: heads - and we will get married, tails - and we will part forever.
The coin was tossed. She tinkled, spun and stopped. Eagle.
We stared at her in bewilderment.
Then, with one voice, we said, “Maybe one more time?”

“Chest” – Daniil Kharms

A man with a thin neck climbed into the chest, closed the lid behind him and began to choke.

“Here,” the man with a thin neck said, gasping, “I’m suffocating in the chest, because I have a thin neck.” The lid of the chest is closed and does not allow air to reach me. I will be suffocating, but I still won’t open the lid of the chest. Little by little I will die. I will see the struggle of life and death. The fight will take place unnaturally, with equal chances, because death naturally wins, and life, doomed to death, only fights in vain with the enemy, until the last minute, without losing vain hope. In this same struggle that will happen now, life will know the way to win: for this, life must force my hands to open the lid of the chest. Let's see: who wins? Only it smells awfully like mothballs. If life wins, I’ll cover the things in the chest with shag... Here it begins: I can’t breathe anymore. I'm dead, that's clear! There is no salvation for me anymore! And there is nothing sublime in my head. I'm suffocating!...

Oh! What is it? Now something has happened, but I can't figure out what it is. I saw something or heard something...
Oh! Did something happen again? My God! I can't breathe. I think I'm dying...

What else is this? Why am I singing? I think my neck hurts... But where is the chest? Why do I see everything that is in my room? There's no way I'm lying on the floor! Where's the chest?

The thin-necked man rose from the floor and looked around. The chest was nowhere to be found. On the chairs and bed were things taken from the chest, but the chest was nowhere to be found.

The man with the thin neck said:
“This means that life has defeated death in a way unknown to me.”

"Wretched" - Dan Andrews

They say evil has no face. Indeed, no feelings were reflected on his face. There was not a glimmer of sympathy on him, but the pain was simply unbearable. Can't he see the horror in my eyes and the panic on my face? He calmly, one might say, carried out his dirty work professionally, and at the end he politely said: “Rinse your mouth, please.”

"Dirty laundry"

One married couple moved to live in a new apartment. In the morning, as soon as she woke up, the wife looked out the window and saw a neighbor who was hanging out washed clothes to dry.
“Look at her dirty laundry,” she told her husband. But he was reading the newspaper and did not pay any attention to it.

“She probably has bad soap, or she doesn’t know how to do laundry at all. We should teach her."
And so, every time the neighbor hung out the laundry, the wife was surprised at how dirty it was.
One fine morning, looking out the window, she cried out: “Oh! Today the laundry is clean! She must have learned how to do laundry!”
“No,” said the husband, “I just got up early today and washed the window.”

“I couldn’t wait” – Stanislav Sevastyanov

It was an unprecedented wonderful moment. Disdaining unearthly forces and his own path, he froze to look at her for the future. At first she took a very long time to take off her dress and fiddle with the zipper; then she let her hair down and combed it, filling it with air and silky color; then she pulled at the stockings, trying not to get them caught with her nails; then she hesitated with the pink lingerie, so ethereal that even her delicate fingers seemed rough. Finally she undressed all - but the month was already looking out the other window.

"Wealth"

One day a rich man gave a poor man a basket full of trash. The poor man smiled at him and left with the basket. I emptied it, cleaned it, and then filled it with beautiful flowers. He returned to the rich man and returned the basket to him.

The rich man was surprised and asked: “Why are you giving me this basket filled with beautiful flowers if I gave you garbage?”
And the poor man replied: “Everyone gives to the other what he has in his heart.”

“Don’t let good things go to waste” – Stanislav Sevastyanov

“How much do you charge?” - “Six hundred rubles per hour.” - “And in two hours?” - “A thousand.” He came to her, she smelled sweetly of perfume and skill, he was worried, she touched his fingers, his fingers were disobedient, crooked and absurd, but he clenched his will into a fist. Returning home, he immediately sat down at the piano and began to consolidate the scale he had just learned. The instrument, an old Becker, was given to him by his previous tenants. My fingers ached, my ears felt stuffy, my willpower grew stronger. The neighbors were banging on the wall.

“Postcards from the Other World” – Franco Arminio

Here the end of winter and the end of spring are approximately the same. The first roses serve as a signal. I saw one rose when they were taking me in an ambulance. I closed my eyes, thinking about this rose. In front, the driver and nurse were talking about a new restaurant. There you can eat your fill, and the prices are meager.

At some point I decided that I could become an important person. I felt that death was giving me a reprieve. Then I plunged headlong into life, like a child with his hand in a stocking with baptismal gifts. Then my day came. Wake up, my wife told me. Wake up, she kept repeating.

It was a fine sunny day. I didn't want to die on a day like this. I always thought that I would die at night, with dogs barking. But I died at noon when a cooking show started on TV.

They say people most often die at dawn. For years I woke up at four in the morning, stood up and waited for the fateful hour to pass. I opened a book or turned on the TV. Sometimes he went outside. I died at seven in the evening. Nothing special happened. The world has always caused me vague anxiety. And then this anxiety suddenly passed.

I was ninety-nine. My children came to the nursing home just to talk to me about my centenary celebrations. None of this bothered me at all. I didn't hear them, I only felt my fatigue. And he wanted to die so as not to feel her either. This happened in front of my eldest daughter. She gave me a piece of apple and talked about a cake with the number one hundred on it. The one should be as long as a stick, and the zeros should be like bicycle wheels, she said.

My wife is still complaining about the doctors who didn’t treat me. Although I always considered myself incurable. Even when Italy won the World Cup, even when I got married.

By the age of fifty, I had the face of a man who could die any minute. I died at ninety-six, after a long agony.

What I always enjoyed was the nativity scene. Every year he turned out more and more elegant. I displayed it in front of the door of our house. The door was constantly open. I divided the only room with red and white tape, like when repairing roads. I treated those who stopped to admire the nativity scene with beer. I talked in detail about papier-mâché, musk, sheep, wise men, rivers, castles, shepherds and shepherdesses, caves, the Baby, the guiding star, electrical wiring. Electrical wiring was my pride. I died alone on Christmas night, looking at the nativity scene sparkling with all the lights.

My story of love began when I came to a dance class. The first time I saw him, I immediately realized that communication would not be easy. Something valuable, besides his talent, was hidden behind his inaccessibility, and this was very attractive and haunted me. As it turned out, he is looking for a performer to perform, he is a ballroom dancing professional, and he is also a producer. From the first meeting, he made it clear that he highly values ​​art and avoids female attention. Warm-ups, stretching, aerobics for two hours did not give any chance of flirting with him. Those who were truly interested in dancing stayed here. The activity was easy for me, perhaps due to my state of love. Training with him, hand in hand, face to face, was pure agony for me. And I wasn’t the only one who expected more from his delicacy.

He leveled the wrist of my wet hand, I felt through the whiteness of the shoes the burning touch of his fingers as he “set” my position. Retreat was so possible! Any playful touch from him was so welcome for me! More and more of his virtues prompted us to think of him as a man. The thought that someday he could become Oleg for me, and I would no longer call him by his patronymic, overtook me by surprise with irrepressible fantasies right here in the studio. Occasionally our glances met in the mirrors. Then a sweet shock euphoria penetrated my body, and then I was very afraid of making a mistake. Something else besides the sounds of music was felt in the space of the hall. It was the rhythm of perfect movements, and also the playful play of fluids that came to life here, in this hall. It was possible to remain silent about this. And I wanted more and more to discover that he was not indifferent to me, to find a miniature confirmation of this, but there was none...

After a successful performance, Oleg Yuryevich congratulated the girls and kissed everyone on the cheek. No one seemed to notice that he didn't kiss me. But not me! For me this was too obvious a manifestation of... what? There are no flaws in my dance! This means that he singled me out from the crowd of others. But why is that? He knew! My wet palm? My timid look?

When everyone was leaving the locker room, Oleg Yuryevich called out to me with a request to stay for thirty seconds. No one doubted that I would stay for half a minute. Oleg Yuryevich was sitting at the table and writing something down. My heart was breaking out from within. I was afraid to believe that he would hint to me about his feelings. I could no longer tell him about it myself. The chairs were very close, and he asked me to sit down. The beating of the heart was louder than silence. He touched my shoulder. He asked me to dance with him in this huge gym. The dancing and hugging were indistinguishable. But my story about love did not end with a verbal confession...

Current page: 1 (book has 7 pages in total) [available reading passage: 2 pages]

Irina Lobusova
Kamasutra. Short stories about love (collection)

It was like this

Almost every day we meet on the landing of the main staircase. She smokes in the company of her friends, and Natasha and I are looking for the women's restroom - or vice versa. She is similar to me - maybe because we both completely lose the ability to navigate the huge and endless (as it seems to us every day) space of the institute. The long, tangled bodies of which seem to be specially created to put pressure on the brain. Usually by the end of the day I start to go wild and demand to immediately hand over the monkey who built this building. Natasha laughs and asks why I am sure that this architectural monkey is still alive. However, endless wandering in search of the right audience or women's toilet is entertainment. There are so few of them in our lives - simple entertainment. We both appreciate them, I recognize everything in their eyes. When, at the most unexpected moment, we bump into each other on the stairs and lie to each other that our meeting is completely unexpected. We both just know how to lie classically. Me. And she.

We usually meet on the stairs. Then we look away and look important. She explains sedately how she just left the audience. I am walking along the corridor nearby. No one admits, even under the guise of a terrible death penalty, that in fact we are standing here and waiting for each other. No one except us is given (and will not be given) to know about this.

Both very amicably pretend that they are incredibly happy to see each other. From the outside, everything looks so easy to believe.

– It’s so nice to meet friends!

– Oh, I didn’t even know that you would be passing through here... But I’m so glad!

– What do you have to smoke?

She holds out cigarettes, my friend Natasha brazenly grabs two at once and in complete female solidarity the three of us smoke silently until the bell rings for the next pair.

– Would you give me your notes on economic theory for a couple of days? We have a test in a couple of days... And you already passed the test ahead of schedule... (she)

- No problem. Call, come in and take... (me).

Then we go to lectures. She is studying in the same course as me, just in a different stream.

The auditorium is damp from the morning light, and the desk is still damp from the wet rag of the cleaning lady. In the back people are discussing yesterday's television series. After a few minutes, everyone dives into the depths of higher mathematics. Everyone but me. During the break, without taking my eyes off my notes, I sit at the table, trying to at least see what is written on the paper sheet open in front of me. Someone slowly and quietly approaches my table. And without looking up, I know who I will see. Who is standing behind me... She.

She enters sideways, as if embarrassed by strangers. He sits down next to you and looks devotedly into his eyes. We are the closest and best friends, and have been for a long time. The deep essence of our relationship cannot be expressed in words. We're just waiting for one man. We both wait, without success, for another year. We are rivals, but not a single person in the world would think of calling us that. Our faces are the same because they are marked with the indelible stamp of love and anxiety. For one person. We probably both love him. Maybe he loves us too, but for the safety of our common souls, it’s easier to convince ourselves that he really doesn’t care about us.

How much time has passed since then? Six months, a year, two years? Since that time, when was there one, the most ordinary phone call?

Who called? I can’t even remember the name now... Someone from a neighboring course... or from a group...

"- Hello. Come right now. Everyone has gathered here... there's a surprise!

- What a surprise?! It's raining outside! Speak clearly!

– How about your English?

– Have you gone crazy?

– Listen, we have Americans sitting here. Two came on exchange to the Faculty of Romance-Germanic Philology.

- Why are they sitting with us?

– They are not interested there, besides, they met Vitalik and he brought them to our dorm. They are funny. They hardly speak Russian. She (named the name) fell for one. She sits next to him all the time. Come. You should look at this! “

The rain that hit my face... When I returned home, there were three of us. Three. This has been the case ever since.

I turn my head and look at her face - the face of a man who, faithfully laying his head on my shoulder, looks through the eyes of a pitiful beaten dog. She definitely loves him more than me. She loves so much that it is a holiday for her to hear at least one word. Even if this word of his is intended for me. From the point of view of damaged pride, I look at her very closely and competently note that today she has her hair done poorly, this lipstick does not suit her, and there is a loop on her tights. She probably sees the bruises under my eyes, unmanicured nails and tired appearance. I have known for a long time that my breasts are more beautiful and larger than hers, my height is taller and my eyes are brighter. But her legs and waist are more slender than mine. Our mutual inspection is almost unnoticeable - it is a habit ingrained in the subconscious. After this, we mutually look for oddities in behavior that indicate that one of us has recently seen him.

“Yesterday I watched international news until two o’clock in the morning...” her voice trails off and becomes hoarse. “They probably won’t be able to come this year... I heard there’s a crisis in the States...”

“And even if they come, despite their shaky economy,” I pick up, “they are unlikely to come to us.”

Her face falls, I see that I hurt her. But I can’t stop anymore.

- And in general, I have long forgotten about all this nonsense. Even if he comes again, you still won’t understand him. As last time.

– But you will help me with the translation...

- Hardly. I forgot English a long time ago. Exams are coming soon, the session is coming, we need to study Russian... the future belongs to the Russian language... and they also say that Germans will soon come to the Russian Geographical Fund for exchange. Would you like to sit down with a dictionary and go look at them?

After her, he turned to me - it was normal, I had long been accustomed to such a reaction, but I did not know that his ordinary masculine actions could cause her such pain. He still writes me letters - thin pieces of paper printed on a laser printer... I keep them in an old notebook so as not to show them to anyone. She does not know about the existence of these letters. All her ideas about life are the hope that he will forget me too. I guess that every morning she opens a map of the world and looks at the ocean with hope. She loves the ocean almost as much as he loves him. For her, the ocean is a bottomless abyss in which thoughts and feelings drown. I do not dissuade her from this illusion. Let him live as easily as possible. Our history is primitive to the point of stupidity. So ridiculous that it’s embarrassing to even talk about it. Those around us are firmly convinced that, having met at the institute, we simply became friends. Two closest friends. Who always have something to talk about... It's true. We are friends. We are interested together, there are always common topics and we also understand each other perfectly. I like her - as a person, as a person, as a friend. She likes me too. She has character traits that I don't have. We feel good together. It’s so good that no one is needed in this world. Even, probably, the ocean.

In our “personal” life, which is open to everyone, each of us has a separate man. She is a biology student from the university. Mine is a computer artist, a rather funny guy. With a valuable quality - the inability to ask questions. Our men help us survive the uncertainty and melancholy, and also the thought that he will not return. That our American romance will never truly connect us to him. But for this love, we secretly promise each other to always show concern - concern not about ourselves, but about him. She doesn’t realize, I understand how funny and absurd we are, clinging to cracked, torn straws in order to float to the surface and drown out some strange pain. Pain similar to a toothache, occurring at the most inopportune moment in the most inopportune place. Is the pain about yourself? Or about him?

Sometimes I read hatred in her eyes. As if by silent agreement, we hate everything that exists around us. An institute that you entered just for the sake of a diploma, friends who don’t care about you, society and our existence, and most importantly, the abyss that forever separates us from him. And when we are tired to the point of madness from eternal lies and poorly hidden indifference, from the whirlwind of meaningless but many events, from the stupidity of other people’s love stories - we meet her eyes and see sincerity, real, truthful sincerity, which is purer and better... We never talk about the topic of a love triangle because we both understand perfectly well that behind this there is always something more complex than the dilemma of ordinary unrequited love...

And one more thing: we think about him very often. We remember, experiencing different feelings - melancholy, love, hatred, something nasty and disgusting, or vice versa, light and fluffy... And after a stream of general phrases, someone suddenly stops mid-sentence and asks:

- Well?

And the other one shakes her head negatively:

- Nothing new…

And, having met his eyes, he will understand the silent sentence - there will be nothing new, nothing... Never.

At home, alone with myself, when no one sees me, I go crazy from the abyss into which I fall lower and lower. I desperately want to grab a pen and write in English: “leave me alone... don’t call... don’t write...” But I can’t, I’m not capable of doing this, and therefore I suffer from nightmares, from which my other half only becomes chronic insomnia. Our jealous sharing of love is a terrible nightmare in my dreams at night... Like a Swedish family or Muslim laws on polygamy... In my nightmares, I even imagine how we both marry him and run the same kitchen... Me and her. I shudder in my sleep. I wake up in a cold sweat and am tormented by the temptation to say that from mutual friends I learned about his death in a car accident... Or that another plane crashed somewhere... I invent hundreds of ways, I know that I cannot do it. I can't hate her. Just like she did me.

One day, on a difficult day, when my nerves were shaken to the limit, I pressed her against the stairs:

- What are you doing?! Why are you following me? Why are you continuing this nightmare?! Live your own life! Leave me alone! Don't seek my company, because in reality you hate me!

A strange expression appeared in her eyes:

- It is not true. I can't and don't want to hate you. I love you. And a little bit of it.

Every day for two years we meet on the landing of the stairs. And every meeting we don’t talk, but we think about him. I even catch myself thinking that I’m counting down the clock every day and looking forward to the moment when she quietly, as if shyly, enters the classroom, sits down with me and starts a stupid, endless conversation on general topics. And then, in the middle, he will interrupt the conversation and look at me questioningly... I guiltily look away to the side to shake my head negatively. And I’ll shiver all over, probably from the eternal cold dampness in the morning.

Two days until the new year

The telegram said “don’t come.” The snow scratched his cheeks with hard bristles, trampled under the broken lantern. The edge of the most brazen of all telegrams protruded from his pocket through the fur of his fur coat. The station looked like a huge pheonite ball, molded from dirty plasticine. A door leading into the sky fell brightly and clearly into the void.

Leaning against the cold wall, she studied the railway ticket window, where the crowd was choking, and thought only that she wanted to smoke, she just wanted to smoke like crazy, drawing in bitter frosty air into both nostrils. It was impossible to walk, you just had to stand, watching the crowd, leaning your shoulder against the cold wall, squinting your eyes from the familiar stench. All the stations are similar to one another, like fallen gray stars, floating in the clouds of other people's eyes, a collection of familiar, undeniable miasma. All stations are similar to one another.

Clouds - other people's eyes. This was essentially the most important thing.

The telegram said “don’t come.” This way he didn’t have to look for confirmation of what he was going to do. In a narrow passage, a trampled drunk homeless man fell out from under someone’s feet and fell right under her feet. She crawled extremely carefully along the wall so as not to touch the edge of her long fur coat. Someone pushed me in the back. Turned around. It seemed like she wanted to say something, but she couldn’t say anything, and so, unable to say anything, she froze, forgetting that she wanted to smoke because the thought was fresher. The idea that decisions can gnaw at the brain in the same way that half-smoked (in the snow) cigarettes gnaw. Where there was pain, red, inflamed dots remained, carefully hidden under the skin. She ran her hand, trying to cut off the most inflamed part, but nothing happened, and the red dots ached more and more painfully, more and more, leaving behind anger, similar to a hot broken lantern in the usual pheonite ball.

Sharply pushing part of the wall away from her, she crashed into the line, professionally throwing away all the bag-men with her confident elbows. The impudence caused a friendly opening of the mouths of seasoned ticket resellers. She pressed herself against the window, afraid that again she would not be able to say anything, but she said, and where the breath fell on the glass, the window became wet.

- One to... for today.

- And in general?

- I said no.

A sound wave of voices hit the legs, someone was vigorously tearing at the fur side, and very close by, the disgusting onion stench of someone’s hysterical mouth entered the nostrils - so the indignant masses of the people righteously tried to take her away from the railway ticket window.

– I may have a certified telegram.

- Go through the other window.

- Well, look - one ticket.

“Are you kidding me, damn you...,” said the cashier, “don’t hold up the line... you..., moved away from the cash register!”

The fur coat was no longer torn; the sound wave hitting the legs went to the floor. She pushed the heavy door that went into the sky and went out to where the frost immediately bit into her face with sharpened vampire teeth. Endless night stations floated past my eyes (other people's eyes). They shouted after us - along the taxi stands. Of course, she didn't understand a word. It seemed to her that she had forgotten all languages ​​a long time ago, and around her, through the aquarium walls, before reaching her, human sounds were disappearing, taking the colors existing in the world with them. The walls went all the way to the bottom, not letting in the bygone symphony of color. The telegram said “don’t come, circumstances have changed.” A perfect semblance of tears dried on her eyelashes, not reaching her cheeks in the vampire frost. These tears disappeared without appearing at all and immediately, only inside, under the skin, leaving a dull callous pain, similar to a drained swamp. She took a cigarette and a lighter (in the shape of a colored fish) from her purse and took a deep breath of the smoke, which suddenly stuck in her throat like a heavy and bitter lump. She pulled the smoke into herself until the hand holding the cigarette turned into a wooden stump, and when the transformation took place, the cigarette butt fell down of its own accord, looking like a huge falling star reflected in the velvet black sky. Someone pushed again, Christmas tree needles caught on the edge of her fur coat and fell onto the snow, and once the needles fell, she turned around. Ahead, in the hare's mark, loomed a wide man's back with a Christmas tree attached to his shoulder, which danced a fantastic funny dance on its back. The back walked quickly and went farther and farther with each step, and then only needles remained in the snow. Frozen (afraid to breathe), she looked at them for a very long time, the needles looked like small lights, and when her eyes dazzled from the artificial light, she suddenly saw that the light coming from them was green. It was very quickly, and then - nothing at all, only the pain, suppressed by the speed, returned to its original place. It stung in her eyes, spun in place, her brain shrank, and inside someone said clearly and clearly “two days until the New Year,” and immediately there was no air, there was bitter smoke, hidden deep in her chest as well as in her throat . A number, black as melted snow, floated out and knocked something off my feet, carried me away through the snow, but not in one place, somewhere - from people, to people.

“Wait, you...” from the side, someone’s heavy breathing reeked of a full range of fusel oils. Turning around, I saw fox eyes under a knitted hat.

- How long can I run after you?

Was someone running after her? Nonsense. It has never been like this - in this world. There was everything, except for two poles - life and death, in complete abundance.

– Did you ask for a ticket before...?

- Let's say.

- Yes, I have it.

- How many.

– I’ll pay you for 50 as if you were my own.

- Yes, let's go..

- Well, a measly 50 bucks, I’m giving it to you as if it were my own, so take it...

- Yeah, one for today, even the lowest place.

She held the ticket up to the lantern.

– Yes, that’s right, in kind, no doubt about it.

The guy crunched and held up a 50 dollar bill to the light.

- And the train is at 2 am.

- I know.

- OK.

He melted into space, like people who do not repeat themselves in daylight melt. “Don’t come, circumstances have changed.”

She grinned. The face was a white blur on the floor with a cigarette butt stuck to his eyebrow. It protruded from under sleepy drooping eyelids, and, fitting into the dirty circle, it called far, further and further. Where she was, the sharp corners of the chair pressed on her body. Voices merged in my ears somewhere in a forgotten world behind me. A sleepy web enveloped even the facial curves in a non-existent warmth. She bowed her head down, trying to leave, and her face only became a dirty white spot in the station tiles. That night she was no longer herself. Someone born and someone dead changed in ways that could not be imagined. Without falling anywhere, she turned her face away from the floor, where the station lived a nocturnal life that was not subject to consideration. At about one o'clock in the morning a telephone call rang in one of the apartments.

- Where are you?

- I'd like to check out.

– You decided.

- He sent a telegram. One.

- Will he at least wait for you? And then, the address...

– I have to go – it’s there, in the telegram.

- Will you come back?

- Come what may.

– What if you wait a couple of days?

- This makes absolutely no sense.

- What if you come to your senses?

- There is no right to another exit.

- There is no need to go to him. No need.

“I can’t hear well—the receiver is hissing, but you speak anyway.”

- What should I say?

- Anything. As you wish.

- Satisfied, right? There is no other such idiot on earth!

– There are two days left until the New Year.

- At least you stayed for the holiday.

- I have been chosen.

- Nobody chose you.

- Doesn't matter.

- Do not leave. There's no need to go there, do you hear?

Short beeps blessed her path and the stars turned black through the glass of the telephone booth inside the sky. She thought that she was gone, but she was scared to think about it for a long time.

The train crawled slowly. The carriage windows were dimly lit, the light bulb in the reserved seat aisle was dimly lit. Leaning the back of her head against the plastic of the train partition that reflected the ice, she waited for everything to go away and the darkness outside the window to be washed away by those tears that, without appearing in the eyes, do not dry. The glass, which had not been washed for a long time, began to tremble with a small, painful tremor. The back of my head hurt from the plastic ice. Somewhere inside, a small, chilly animal was whining. “I don’t want...” somewhere inside a small, tired, sick animal cried. “I don’t want to go anywhere, I don’t want to, Lord, do you hear...”

The glass shattered with small painful tremors in time with the train. “I don’t want to leave... the little animal cried, - nowhere at all... I don’t want to go anywhere... I want to go home... I want to go home to my mother...”

The telegram said “don’t come.” This meant that staying was not an option. It seemed to her that, together with the train, she was rolling down the slimy walls of the frozen ravine, with melted snowflakes on her cheeks and Christmas tree needles on the snow, down to the most hopeless bottom, where the frozen windows of the former rooms glow with electricity in such a homely way and where the false ones dissolve in the warmth. words that there are windows on earth, to which, having abandoned everything, you can still return... she was trembling, her teeth knocked out tremors where the fast train wheezed in agony. Cringing, she thought about the Christmas tree needles stuck in the snow, and that the telegram said “don’t come,” and that there were two days left until the New Year and that one day (it warmed with a painful artificial warmth) the day would come when she would no longer need to go anywhere drive. Like an old sick beast, the train howled along the rails that happiness is the simplest thing on earth. Happiness is when there is no road.

Red flower

She hugged herself by the shoulders, enjoying the perfect velvety skin. Then she slowly smoothed her hair with her hand. Cold water is a miracle. The eyelids became the same, without retaining a single trace of what... That she cried all night the night before. Everything was washed away by the water, and we could safely move forward. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror: “I am beautiful!” Then she waved her hand indifferently.

She walked through the corridor and found herself where she was supposed to be. She took a glass of champagne from the tray, not forgetting to give a sparkling smile to either the waiter or those around her. The champagne seemed disgusting to her, and a terrible bitterness immediately froze on her bitten lips. But none of those present who filled the large hall would have guessed this. She really liked herself from the outside: a lovely woman in an expensive evening dress drinks exquisite champagne, enjoying every sip.

Of course he was there all the time. He reigned, surrounded by his servile subjects, in the heart of the great banquet hall. A socialite, with an easy charm, he strictly follows his crowd. Has everyone come - those who should come? Are everyone enchanted - those who should be enchanted? Is everyone scared and depressed - those who should be scared and depressed? A proud look from under slightly knitted eyebrows said that was all. He sat half-sitting in the center of the table, surrounded by people, and, first of all, beautiful women. Most people who met him for the first time were fascinated by his simple-minded, attractive appearance, his simplicity and ostentatious good nature. He seemed to them an ideal - an oligarch who kept it so simple! Almost like an ordinary person, like one of our own. But only those who came into contact with him closer or those who dared to ask him for money knew how, from under the outer softness, a formidable lion’s paw protruded, capable of tearing apart the culprit with a slight movement of a formidable palm.

She knew all his gestures, his words, movements and habits. She kept every wrinkle in her heart like a treasure. The years brought him money and confidence in the future, he greeted them proudly, like an ocean flagship. There were too many other people in his life to notice. Occasionally he noticed her new wrinkles or folds on her body.

- Darling, you can’t do that! You need to take care of yourself! Look in the mirror! With my money... I heard a new beauty salon has opened...

-Who did you hear it from?

He was not embarrassed:

– Yes, a new one has opened and it’s very good! Go there. Otherwise, you will soon look like you are forty-five! And I won't even be able to go out with you.

He wasn't shy about showing off his knowledge of cosmetics or fashion. On the contrary, he emphasized: “You see how the youth loves me!” He was always surrounded by these same “enlightened” golden youth. On either side of him sat the two most recent title holders. One is Miss City, the other is Miss Charm, the third is the face of a modeling agency that dragged its charges to any presentation where there might be at least one earning more than 100 thousand dollars a year. The fourth was new - she had not seen her before, but she was just as evil, mean and impudent as everyone else. Perhaps this one had even more impudence, and she noted to herself that this one would go far. That girl sat half-sitting in front of him right on the banquet table, coquettishly placing her hand on his shoulder, and burst into loud laughter in response to his words, with her whole appearance expressing a greedy predatory grip under the mask of naive carelessness. Women always occupied first places in his circle. The men crowded behind.

Squeezing the glass in her hand, she seemed to be reading her thoughts on the surface of the golden drink. Flattering, ingratiating smiles accompanied her around her - after all, she was a wife. She had been his wife for a long time, so long that he always emphasized this, which meant that she also had the main role.

Cold water is a miracle. She no longer felt her swollen eyelids. Someone touched her with his elbow:

- Ah. Expensive! – it was an acquaintance, the minister’s wife, – you look great! You are a wonderful couple, I always envy you! It’s so great to live for more than 20 years and maintain such ease in relationships! Always look at each other. Ah, wonderful!

Looking up from her annoying chatter, she really caught his gaze. He looked at her and it was like bubbles in champagne. She smiled her most charming smile, thinking that he deserved a chance…. He did not get up when she approached, and the girls did not even think of leaving when she appeared.

-Are you having fun, dear?

- Yes darling. Everything is fine?

- Wonderful! And you?

– I’m very happy for you, dear.

Their dialogue did not go unnoticed. People around thought “what a lovely couple!” And the journalists present at the banquet noted to themselves that they should mention in the article that the oligarch has such a wonderful wife.

- Dear, will you allow me to say a few words?

Taking her by the arm, he led her away from the table.

-Have you finally calmed down?

- What do you think?

“I think it’s bad to worry at your age!”

- Let me remind you that I am the same age as you!

– It’s different for men!

- Is that so?

- Let's not start over! I'm already tired of your stupid invention that I had to give you flowers today! I have so much to do, I’m spinning like a squirrel in a wheel! You should have thought about this! There was no need to cling to me with all sorts of nonsense! If you want flowers, go buy it for yourself, order it, or even buy a whole store, just leave me alone – that’s all!

She smiled her most charming smile:

- I don’t even remember anymore, dear!

- Is it true? - he was delighted, - and I was so angry when you clung to me with these flowers! I have so much to do, and you come up with all sorts of nonsense!

“It was a little feminine whim.”

- Darling, remember: little feminine whims are allowed only to young beautiful girls, like the ones sitting next to me! But it only irritates you!

- I will remember, my love. Don't be angry, don't be nervous about such trifles!

- It’s very good that you are so smart! I'm lucky with my wife! Listen, darling, we won’t be going back together. The driver will pick you up when you're tired. And I’ll go by myself, in my car, I have some things to do…. And don’t wait for me today, I won’t come to spend the night. I'll only be there for lunch tomorrow. And even then, maybe I’ll have lunch at the office and not return home.

- Will I go alone? Today?!

- Lord, what is it today?! Why are you getting on my nerves all day?

- Yes, I take up so little space in your life...

- What does this have to do with it! You take up a lot of space, you are my wife! And I carry you with me everywhere! So don't start!

- Fine, I will not. I did not want.

- That's good! There is nothing left for you to want!

And, grinning, he returned back, where too many - much more important - were waiting impatiently. From his point of view, more special than his wife. She smiled. Her smile was beautiful. It was an expression of happiness - enormous happiness that could not be contained! Returning to the toilet room again and locking the doors tightly behind her, she took out a small mobile phone.

- I confirm. After half an hour.

In the hall, she again lavished smiles - demonstrating (and she did not need to demonstrate, that’s how she felt) a huge surge of happiness. These were the happiest moments - moments of anticipation... So, beaming, she slipped into the narrow corridor near the service entrance, from where the exit was clearly visible, and clung to the window. Half an hour later, familiar figures appeared in the narrow doors. It was her husband's two guards, and her husband. Her husband hugging the new girl. And the kisser is on the go. Everyone hurried to the shiny black Mercedes, the husband’s latest acquisition, which cost 797 thousand dollars. He loved expensive cars. Loved it very much.

The doors swung open and the dark interior of the car swallowed them completely. The guards remained outside. One was saying something on the radio - probably warning those at the entrance that the car was already coming.

The explosion sounded with deafening force, destroying the hotel's illumination, trees and glass. Everything was mixed up: screams, roar, ringing. Fiery tongues of flame that shot up to the very sky licked the mangled body of the Mercedes, turned into a huge funeral pyre.

She hugged herself by the shoulders and automatically smoothed her hair, enjoying the inner voice: “I gave you the most beautiful red flower! Happy wedding day, dear."

Only true experts on the human soul can create short stories about love. It is not so easy to depict deep-seated experiences in a work of short prose. The Russian classic Ivan Bunin did an excellent job with this. Ivan Turgenev, Alexander Kuprin, Leonid Andreev and other writers also created interesting short stories about love. In this article we will look at authors of foreign and domestic literature, whose works contain small lyrical works.

Ivan Bunin

Short stories about love... What should they be? In order to understand this, you need to read Bunin's works. This writer is an unsurpassed master of sentimental prose. His works are examples of this genre. The famous collection “Dark Alleys” includes thirty-eight romantic stories. In each of them, the author not only revealed the deep experiences of his characters, but was also able to convey how powerful love is. After all, this feeling can change a person’s destiny.

Such short stories about love as “Caucasus”, “Dark Alleys”, “Late Hour” can tell more about a great feeling than hundreds of sentimental novels.

Leonid Andreev

Love for all ages. Talented writers dedicated short stories about love not only to the pure feelings of young people. For an essay on this topic, which is sometimes asked at school, the material can be the work of Leonid Andreev “Herman and Martha”, the main characters of which are extremely far from the age of Romeo and Juliet. The action of this story takes place in one of the cities of the Leningrad region at the beginning of the century. Then the place where the tragic event described by the Russian writer took place belonged to Finland. According to the laws of this country, people who have reached the age of fifty can marry only with the permission of their children.

The love story of Herman and Martha was sad. The closest people in their lives did not want to understand the feelings of two middle-aged people. The heroes of Andreev’s story could not be together, and therefore the story ended tragically.

Vasily Shukshin

Short stories about, if they are created by a real artist, are especially heartfelt. After all, there is nothing stronger in the world than the feeling that a woman experiences for her child. Screenwriter and director Vasily Shukshin told about this with sad irony in the story “A Mother’s Heart.”

The main character of this work is in trouble through his own fault. But the mother’s heart, although wise, does not recognize any logic. A woman overcomes unimaginable obstacles to free her son from prison. “A Mother’s Heart” is one of the most heartfelt works of Russian prose dedicated to love.

Lyudmila Kulikova

Another work about the most powerful feeling is the story “We Met.” Lyudmila Kulikova dedicated it to the love of her mother, whose life ends after the betrayal of her only beloved son. This woman breathes, talks, smiles. But she no longer lives. After all, the son, who was the meaning of her life, did not make himself known for more than twenty years. Kulikova's story is heartfelt, sad and very instructive. Mother's love is the brightest thing a person can have. To betray her would be to commit the greatest sin.

Anatoly Aleksin

A short story called “Homemade Essay” is dedicated to both maternal and youthful love. One day, Aleksin’s hero, the boy Dima, discovers a letter in an old thick encyclopedia. The message was written many years ago, and its author is no longer alive. He was a tenth grade student, and the addressee was a classmate with whom he was in love. But the letter remained unanswered, because the war came. The author of the letter died without sending it. The girl for whom the romantic lines were intended graduated from school, college, and got married. Her life went on. The mother of the author of this letter stopped smiling forever. After all, it is impossible to survive your child.

Stefan Zweig

The famous Austrian prose writer also created long and short stories about love. One of these works is called “Letter from a Stranger.” When you read the confession of the heroine of this short story, who all her life loved a man who did not remember her face or name, you become very sad. But at the same time, there is hope that a real sublime and selfless feeling still exists, and is not just an artistic invention of a talented writer.