Drops

It will be about townspeople, there will be tears, it will be sinful, about the city, the countryside and Starbucks coffee.

It’s windy.
He tears his head off.
Drops stands at the threshold of the gangway. He looks around.
Nobody came.
She hangs her pony head. He takes the first step. The gangplank bends slightly. This is the beginning of the process.

“It’s a dead body, ma’am. Well, I won’t keep a dead body or look for a customer, because I’ll make a fool of myself,” the trader gasps.

So let’s calculate.

The first sin. Drops got old. This is a serious sin. He struggled with his little hooves, but years passed and old age finally caught Drops in its paws. And he won’t let go anymore. He is guilty. Gray temples and swollen legs as proof.

The second sin. He got sick. He didn’t ask anyone if he could take l4. He just started coughing, that cheeky pony. To avoid work, he began to choke. He’s so smart.

Sin three. It has no origin. If you believe that the soul chooses where it will be born, then Drops’ soul is to blame. She chose poorly. Just some barn in the countryside.

The fourth sin is that it has crooked legs. He was always a little crooked, but somehow he could walk and do things in front of people, and he could forgive it. Now this completes his gallon of grave sins.

Bang. Barely audible. Drops put his second hoof.

And the last sin. The heaviest. Bustards bit the trader. He bit him because he wanted to put him on the scale by force and Drops wanted to run away. This is unforgivable.

“You see what a idiot you are. For all those years that my neighbor kept it, even if he didn’t resist, and honestly climbed onto the car. “And it’s as stupid as a shoe, it just stands there and stares” the merchant turned around, pulled out a huge stick and aimed it at the old, terrified pony.

I won’t tell you what happened next. I don’t want to spoil your vision of the Polish countryside, if at any point it is idyllic.

I usually stay silent because there are no witnesses and no return. But this time I couldn’t stand it. We were ready to take him off the gangplank and run away with him.

Of course it makes no sense. Theft, there would probably be a burglary, and they would catch us just around the corner – because Dropsiu doesn’t move fast.

I approach and feel the dealer staring at me as I cry and can’t stand it either. “You’re not babbling here, you’re a typical woman from the city who doesn’t know the countryside, what do you think, all of you in these cities have problems with emotions due to lack of work and you drink coffee in these Starbucks,” he said.

And then he said $313 by Monday at 12:00. Advance payments. And he told me to leave. And get down to some work.

I didn’t smoke anymore.
We left.

I wiped my tears. The tears of a townsman. And we will definitely stop for coffee on our way back. The one in Orlen.

Let’s all do nothing this weekend. How it is in cities.

But on Monday at 12 p.m. please come here with me for some old Drops. We will take him and his sins to where they don’t matter.

And then?
Then we will stare at him like a bourgeoisie, with the feeling that, full of vanity, we let him take his last breath when his day comes.

We have 72 hours.
Just. And until.