Лицензии
Наша Клиника эстетической медицины и лазерной косметологии – является подразделением ведущего в России и в мире современного медицинского, научного и учебного учреждения – ФГБУ Национального Медицинского Исследовательского Центра эндокринологии МЗ РФ.
“But,” she said, and she reached out and took his hand. His skin was warm, dry, familiar in a way that made no sense after fifteen years. “I’m not going back tonight. The last ferry left an hour ago.”
She heard him lower himself onto the bench beside her. She caught the smell of him—tobacco and wool and something else, something that had not changed in fifteen years. A warmth. A familiarity that made her chest ache.
She unfolded the single sheet of paper. The handwriting was shakier now, the lines slanting downward as if the hand that held the pen had been tired. But the words were unmistakably his.
An hour passed. Then two. The sun began to sink, the light softening into amber and rose. The fishermen packed up their gear and went home. Couples strolled past, their voices low and intimate. A street vendor selling churros called out to passersby in a singsong voice.
She thought about what she would say if she went to the rambla and found him there. Hello, Mateo. It’s been a while. No. You bastard. You broke my heart. No. I forgave you a long time ago. That wasn’t true, either.
“You look terrible,” she said.
She disembarked and walked through the terminal, her footsteps echoing on the tile. She had not brought a suitcase. She had not brought anything except herself. She did not know if she was going to the rambla. She did not know if she was going to find him. She only knew that she was here, in Montevideo, for the first time in fifteen years.
“But,” she said, and she reached out and took his hand. His skin was warm, dry, familiar in a way that made no sense after fifteen years. “I’m not going back tonight. The last ferry left an hour ago.”
She heard him lower himself onto the bench beside her. She caught the smell of him—tobacco and wool and something else, something that had not changed in fifteen years. A warmth. A familiarity that made her chest ache.
She unfolded the single sheet of paper. The handwriting was shakier now, the lines slanting downward as if the hand that held the pen had been tired. But the words were unmistakably his.
An hour passed. Then two. The sun began to sink, the light softening into amber and rose. The fishermen packed up their gear and went home. Couples strolled past, their voices low and intimate. A street vendor selling churros called out to passersby in a singsong voice.
She thought about what she would say if she went to the rambla and found him there. Hello, Mateo. It’s been a while. No. You bastard. You broke my heart. No. I forgave you a long time ago. That wasn’t true, either.
“You look terrible,” she said.
She disembarked and walked through the terminal, her footsteps echoing on the tile. She had not brought a suitcase. She had not brought anything except herself. She did not know if she was going to the rambla. She did not know if she was going to find him. She only knew that she was here, in Montevideo, for the first time in fifteen years.