A Strange Encounter

One day I found myself at Kursky railway station — I wanted to see the Gzhel exhibition. I stood there admiring the bright, beautifully painted pieces when suddenly I felt something suspicious moving in my pocket. I spun around sharply — and there she was.

A drunken woman. Haggard, cross-eyed, limping, with dirty, tangled hair and a purple bruise under her eye. She reeked of booze, sour stench, and a nasty mix of sweat and cheap tobacco. Her crooked, trembling fingers had just been rummaging through my pocket. A true thief and beggar, soaked in alcohol through and through, with the eyes of a rat cornered and desperate.

When she realized I had caught her, she instantly jerked back, spun around on her heel, and lisped: — I didn’t steal anything! Look, my hands are empty!

But it was too late. I boiled over — rage swept through me. I couldn’t hold back and hurled at her everything that came to my tongue: about her drunkenness, her filth, and her thieving nature.

Later I remembered — I had put three rubles in my pocket. That’s what she managed to snatch, the vile scum.

Normally, I never insult people for their illnesses or disabilities — those are not a choice, but fate. But when such a pitiful, boozy, cross-eyed thief shoves her filthy hands into your pocket — it’s simply impossible to restrain yourself. You just want to call her every word that, without a doubt, reflects her wretched essence.