To the other side.

What am I doing here?" thought an old, hunched woman with a cane in her hand. She stood on the side of the road, gazing sadly at the other side, where the object of her longing stood, a small, warm, and clean house. All she had to do was cross the four lanes of the expressway, and she could open the door to her house, go inside, sit down, and rest. There was only one problem. There was no pedestrian crossing in sight. No traffic lights, no tunnel under the road, no viaduct above the road.

The woman watched with a frightened gaze the constant stream of cars heading in both directions. Some cars were smaller, others larger, moving faster and slower. The woman was most afraid of those huge trucks, with their semi-trailers. The mere thought of them sent shivers down her spine. Another such colossus would hurtle past the old woman, and the gust of wind that accompanied it almost knocked her over.

She looked left and right for the hundredth time, that's what her parents had taught her when she was a little girl. Those were the old days, and there were fewer cars. Even a tortoise could cross the street in those days. And that's exactly how she felt now, slow as a tortoise.

Why wouldn't any of the drivers slow down? They had to see her. Another glance left and right, but what good was it? The road never calmed down enough for her to step onto it and cross safely. Maybe she should put her foot on the asphalt, and then the cars would stop, or at least slow down a bit? That's what it says in all the Highway Codes, I guess, and even if there's nothing in the books, drivers should still stop and let her pass.

She put her right foot on the road. Nothing. No one stopped, no one even slowed down. She tried to put her other foot down, but quickly pulled back. One of those huge cars was hurtling straight at her. The driver was honking and waving his fist.

She had fled and now stood on the side of the road, her heart pounding, looking nervously left and right.

What should I do? How should I get through? She thought, glancing at the house on the other side.

Tears welled up in her eyes, one even took a walk down her cheek. And then a crazy idea struck her. She'd close her eyes and, without looking, cross to the other side. She had to get there somehow, and she couldn't think of anything better at the moment. She crossed herself, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and took the first step. Her heart almost leaped out of her chest. The second step. One of the cars missed her by a few centimeters. The driver was shouting something inside that she couldn't hear, pounding his fist on the steering wheel, but she couldn't see it. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and tighter, and nothing else mattered to her. Another step, and another. The car missed her by a hair's breadth. This time from behind. She wanted to take another step, but a strong impact prevented her from doing so. Her legs were swept away, she was lifted into the air, flying two, three meters, and tumbling into the other lane, straight under the wheels of an oncoming truck. This one ran over an old woman and didn't even stop. The next car did the same. "

What am I doing here?" thought the old, hunched woman with a cane in her hand. She stood on the side of the road, looking sadly across the street, where the object of her longing stood, a small, warm, clean house. All she had to do was cross the four lanes of the expressway, and she could open the door to her house, go inside, sit down, and relax. There was just one problem. There was no pedestrian crossing in sight. No lights, no tunnel under or overpass above the road.

Wait a minute? Hadn't this happened before? Or had she just dreamed something similar? Or was her memory playing tricks on her? Yes. It was definitely her memory. She had to cross this road more than once to get to her house on the other side.

But what was she doing here, why was she going here? She couldn't remember. Oh, that memory. In her youth, she had a keen memory, able to recite poems from a hat for hours. She was a quick learner, had no trouble remembering dates and names, and even remembered phone numbers the first time she heard them. But was she really? Was this just a fixation of her tired mind? Why had she even come here?

Then she remembered her cozy, warm, and quiet little house again. She looked across the road and longed. She had to get there. The honking of a horn snapped her out of her reverie. The driver was waving his fists and shouting something. It must be to her. Then she noticed he was standing with both feet on the road. She quickly backed up to the shoulder. How was she supposed to get through this constant stream of speeding cars? When she wasn't so old and tired, she would have gone in search of a pedestrian crossing, but she no longer had the strength. The best thing to do was close her eyes and cross the street. Maybe if she wasn't looking, all those smoking monsters would disappear, and she would cross safely. She closed her eyes and smiled. She took a step, then another, and then there was a screech of tires, and something hit her. It hurt a little, but only a little. The pain vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

What am I doing here? thought the old, stooped woman with a cane in her hand. She stood on the side of the road, her eyes sad, gazing across to the other side, where the object of her longing stood, a small, warm, and clean house. All she had to do was cross... Either she had dreamed it, or she had experienced all of this before. Déjà vu? Is that what it was called? No, not Déjà vu. She was almost certain this had all happened before. But how was that possible? Had I died and gone to hell? she thought. She wanted to do a quick examination of conscience about her entire life, but she remembered nothing. Absolutely nothing. She panicked. Home. My quiet, cozy, and warm home. And yet, she remembered something. But how could she get to the other side? She limped a few dozen meters in one direction. She came back and limped a few dozen meters in the other direction. No crossing anywhere. How could she get across? She had to get to the other side. Cross over, cross over, she repeated to herself. Cross over? But how? None of the cars slowed for a moment. None of the drivers paid her the slightest attention. I'm dreaming. Yes. This isn't déjà vu, or hell. This is a dream. I'll close my eyes, and when I open them, I'll be lying in my bed. She smiled, closing her eyes. Cross over, cross over, cross over... One, two, three steps, impact, pain, darkness.

Game over. Chopin's "Funeral March."

Two young men were standing by a slot machine.

"I was so close!" one of them yelled. "Borrow some money.

" "I don't have any," the other replied. "

Here, I saw it."

"It's for shopping. Mom gave it to me for jeans."

This explanation wasn't enough for the first young man, and he tried with all his might to persuade his friend to give up on buying the pants. Then he started from a different angle, trying to convince his friend to save money by buying cheaper pants and investing the money in crossing over to the other side. This time he was successful. A compromise was reached. First the jeans, then the game. They left the arcade, and the machine was still "whining" about Chopin.