— Glashka, do you want to get married?
— Are you planning to marry me? — Glafira snapped, brushing off the hand of the cheeky Mishka Zotkin. He just laughed loudly, grinning broadly, clearly showing his interest in her voluptuous figure.
— So, you agree? — Mishka tried to come closer again. — Let’s go tumble in the hayloft… Let me at least hold your waist…
But Glasha wouldn’t let him get away with it — with one motion, she pushed him right into a patch of nettles, where he landed helplessly waving his arms. Laughter erupted all around the club.
— Hey, you “curvy one,” — Michael spat angrily as he climbed out of the prickly bushes, rubbing his bruised spot, almost spitting at Glasha’s feet — do you think they’re laughing at me? No, it’s you they’re laughing at!
Glafira turned away, pressing her lips into a thin line. Nearby, her friend Natasha laid a calming hand on her shoulder:
— Don’t pay attention. You know Mishka — all talk, no care for who he hurts.
Glasha understood it all — she had long grown used to such jokes. And how could she not, when all her life she had been called that? Though it was easy for Natasha to say — slender and agile, unlike Glasha, who really looked more like a blossoming tree than a slender birch.
— Let’s go, the movie’s about to start, — her friend called, and the group headed inside the dimly lit village club.
Wooden benches creaked as the girls took their seats. No comforts, but on nights like this, the joy of the film felt especially big.
Glafira sighed, watching the graceful heroines on the screen. Her older sister Maria was also slim, taking after their father or his relatives. The younger brother Kolya was like a spinning top, also thin. But their mother, Klavdiya Petrovna, had always been plump and yet lively, nimble, and got along perfectly with their father. People said, “A perfect match,” though at first glance, you might not understand why.
Glasha sighed again. She had no boyfriend in the village, and probably never would. But maybe today she’d get lucky — the girls were inviting her to the district center. Trucks with cabins were coming; there would be a place even though it was a bumpy ride, tossing them like balls.
They arrived at the square where the district council building stood, the sun was shining, music played from speakers, and the smell of fresh kvass came from a barrel. The girls stood, laughed, and had fun.
Suddenly, Glasha heard:
— Look at that curvy one!
She involuntarily turned, hoping it wasn’t about her, but no one like her was nearby. By the tree were two guys: one thoughtful, the other with a mocking look, eyeing Glasha from head to toe and nudging his friend with his elbow.
Glafira hurried back to her friends — she knew that look all too well; it usually meant not-so-kind jokes were coming.
— Girls, let’s go dance some more! — Nina suggested.
— It’s late, time to go home…
— We’ll have time! Uncle Vasya promised to pick us up from the cultural center. Come on, let’s go!
— Let’s go!
Dancing at the district cultural center was not the same as at the village club. The building was beautiful, with columns, and the music was different — not just an accordion. Sometimes even the regional orchestra came, but only for holidays.
Glasha adjusted her blue dress and decisively followed her friends. Of course, no one would ask her to dance, she knew that. But she didn’t complain — just stood aside, watching the girls twirl happily and smile.
Then it seemed to her someone was watching. Maybe really watching? She had beautiful light brown braids, a sweet face, rosy cheeks. And in her eyes — warmth and a subtle hope unnoticed by many.
— Want to dance? — came a voice.
Glasha recognized the same guy who had been on the square with the cheeky friend.
— Okay, — she nodded.
He was taller than her, taciturn, but after the dance, he did ask:
— What’s your name?
— Glafira. You can call me Glasha.
— I’m Stepan.
— Where are you from?
— Berezovka.
— Not far.
— Where do you live now?
— Here.
— And before?
— Studied and worked in the city.
After the dance, he even walked her to her car, wanted to say something but didn’t dare. Glasha thought: maybe he was just bored?
His friend Yura stood at the other end:
— Again hitting on the “curvy one”?
— Why “curvy”? She has a name — Glasha, — Stepan smiled.
— Wow, Stepan, looks like you’re in love?
— Why “in love” right away? She’s just a good girl. Very pretty, kind, and sweet…
— Stepa, don’t get mad, I’m just teasing. But seriously — why don’t you see her again? Or will you stay alone?
— I’m not alone. I have Valya and Vovka. I need to raise them. Why would a girl want someone else’s kids? She’ll have her own later.
Stepan ran his hand through his hair, said goodbye to his friend, and slowly walked home.
He grew up here, in his native village, left to study, and his mother helped as much as she could — supported and cared for the children. She passed away a year ago. Then Stepan returned, stunned by grief, and little Vova and Valya ran up to him right away: his seven-year-old little brother hugged his knees, older sister took his hand — as if to say, “You’re our closest person now.”
Aunt Zoya, a longtime friend of his mother, came by, cried loudly lamenting the orphans. Then suddenly stopped, wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, and said:
— You need to get married, Stepan. You’re now the head of the family, the breadwinner. So it’s better to marry a woman with a child — you’ll be equals. There’s one — Serafima Kudryavtseva — lives nearby. Maybe you know her?
— I’ve seen her once… But I’m not into that now. And Serafima’s not for me.
— Well, Stepa, you won’t have much choice. She won’t go for you herself. Marrying a guy is one thing, marrying one with two kids…
— Are Valya and Vovka a noose around my neck?
— Don’t pick on words, — Aunt softened. — It’s just life.
— No, Aunt Zoya, I’ll figure it out myself.
— Well, think about it. But Sima wouldn’t refuse, and with kids, it’d be easier.
Then Stepan was silent, not wanting to argue. Now, walking home, he remembered that conversation. And he imagined the girl from Berezovka walking beside him. He remembered how she came to the car, how she looked at him as if waiting for something. He wanted to call her again, say something important… but didn’t dare. For him, the kids were family, but who else would want them? For her, they were strangers. And though she was free, why would she want that?
Glasha caught herself every day thinking about those gray, slightly shy eyes. She hardly knew Stepan, but she wanted to see him again.
Standing in front of the mirror, she sighed:
— That’s all — a curvy girl is a curvy girl. Even if Natasha sometimes calls me sweetly “curvy one,” it still hurts.
When the girls gathered again the next Sunday to go to the district center, Glasha refused:
— What would I do there? — she thought. — If he wanted, he’d have called by now. But he was silent.
The workweek began at dawn. There was plenty to do in the fields. After work, the girls collapsed on the grass — some sitting, some lying down.
— Oh, Glash, I forgot! — suddenly Natasha ran up and whispered, sitting next to her. — The guy from the dance asked me to tell you he’s inviting you next Sunday. They say the regional orchestra is coming. He asked why you didn’t come.
— Me?
— You, you! He came especially to ask about you!
— Then we’ll all go.
— Of course, but he’ll be waiting just for you.
Glasha’s cheeks flushed. First joy, then doubt:
“What if he’s like Mishka Zotkin? What if he starts flirting or mocking again?”
She lived with these thoughts all week.
But on Sunday, the square and cultural center went without them. Splitting from the group, Glasha and Stepan went to a quiet park, sat on a bench in the shade.
— I wanted to see you again right away, — Stepan began nervously twisting his cap. — Just thought you might not want to. Or maybe you already have someone…
— No one.
— And I don’t have a fiancée, — he said, hesitating. — But… I have kids.
Glasha looked at him in surprise: so young, and already?
— A sister and a brother. Valya is ten, Vova seven. Their father died long ago, and a year ago, our mother passed. Now I’m the eldest. That’s why I didn’t call before… even though I really wanted to. Just afraid it would push you away.
— I still want to see you, — she quietly replied.
— And I liked you. Then and now. I just decided it’s better to say it right away than explain later. Now you know everything.
— Has anything changed? — Glasha asked. — I like you, no matter what.
Stepan cautiously hugged her, and in that embrace was so much hope, anxiety, and warmth.
— Glasha, Valya and Vova are good, obedient… They will grow up, each will have their own family. They won’t be a burden, really. They’re all I have…
— Stepa, how are they a burden? They’re your family…
In autumn, the Agapov family finished harvesting the garden together. The evening grew cold, and they had to light the stove. Glafira stood by the Russian stove in her favorite blue dress, glancing at the clock from time to time.
— Well, — Klavdiya Petrovna sighed, — the middle daughter is getting married. Though the guy has kids…
The father shook his head and said:
— With a man like that, with or without kids, our Glafira won’t be lost. She’ll have her own and raise those too.
— They’re coming! — Klavdiya shouted. — The matchmakers have arrived!
Glasha rushed out of the house, forgetting even to put on a coat. Valya and Vovka ran to the porch and grabbed her hands. They couldn’t say anything — just looked into her eyes. At that moment, everything became clear: now they have Stepa, and Stepa now has Glasha.
— Well, let her go for a minute, — laughed Stepan, — let me hug my bride!
— Tili-tili-testo — groom and bride! — the kids sang, and everyone went into the house together.
And Glasha no longer needed to prove anything, justify herself, or worry about her appearance or what they used to call her. She knew: now she was loved, valued, and called by her real name. Though if someone affectionately said “curvy one,” she wouldn’t be offended. Most likely, she would even smile.
