She took his last book with the firm intention of taking an autograph from him. Of course, I frowned and called him an eccentric considering him an immoral person, but I still had to read his poems under her pressure. What can I say, there were a couple of good poems, and I continued to grimace expecting him in the audience of one unique institute. Rumors about his arrival were mined in portions - he turns out to be tall, he is in a denim long coat, like a gay.

I sat with her at the last desk and thought about how to somewhat quicker get out on the boulevard and drink beer. From heavy thoughts, I laid my head on her knees, and meanwhile, she tasted his beautiful words. She is beautiful and smart, but not yet used to the close distance from the "classics".

Yevtushenko looks like Hitler without a little mustache, and this cunning smile kills on the spot. The only joy from all that was happening around during that significant meeting was her disappointment in him as in a person. He said something about his outstanding work, about one iconic verse. Maybe the verse was really significant, but don't talk about it every five minutes. I felt like that Buddhist who comprehended nirvana from the frequent repetition of the same phrase that loses its meaning. He seemed to not understand. Something else he said about the anthem, he seemed to refuse to write the text to music. And all this with wide gestures and with an open soul - look at my genius.

Once again, I say I wanted a beer and nothing more.

After the meeting, I went out for a smoke, but she nevertheless went to get an autograph for the parents who are fans of him somewhere in the Russian outback.

To tell the truth, I’m jealous, up to the clouding of reason. She smoked nervously: “Imagine, I’m standing in line for autographs with girls, I’m waiting. He calmly signs, listens to him being flattered, and then I come - you should see how he looked at me as if at some beautiful thing, roused himself, like a rooster, a nasty man. The old one, but all the same - and what’s your name, how beautiful you are, and so on.” Each look at her for me is like a stab in the back, okay there are teens, but a Poet.

She already wanted to throw out the book, but changed her mind, decided to make a gift to her mother.

To tell the truth, I do not understand these iconic figures. Well, they are famous, well, they are proud of themselves for some merits, but why show off? I drank beer to the accompaniment of her offended remarks - "here the goats, they want the same thing".

And then it jerked us to go to the Museum of Cinema for the good movie “Sky above Berlin.” We didn’t get any tickets and the five of us stood in search of the extra ticket. We stood frozen and already wanted to go for a walk when saw a familiar tall figure in a long black coat. He walked with his head raised as if searching for something ahead. A companion in a shabby coat respectfully led him to the ticket office and took the booked tickets. Yes, we were not mistaken - it was Yevtushenko, the pillar and power of Russian poetry, who recently received a diploma from the Literary Institute, which in his time he did not finish.

He passed, smiling indulgently in response to the enthusiastic words of my friends saying hat they recognized the famous poet. She stood waiting for one thing - would he recognize her or not. He said something as condescending and standard as his gaze, he wanted to leave the cinema's dressing room as he saw her. He stopped, looked in surprise and interest in her eyes, and even opened his mouth, but my chest protected her from his lascivious gaze. Yevtushenko wriggled out - he smiled broadly and said: "So, I have gunpowder in the powder flasks, as you are hiding!"

Yevtushenko left, friends laughed for a long time, and I thought - for such things two centuries ago, they challenged to a duel. It's a pity that this is the 21st century... It's a pity that Pushkin perished.