When was the last time you read a book?

Girls walk along the beach with “whistles”, silicone breasts standing out, pumped‑up buttocks and tattoos. They swim, then with wet hands pull out phones and stare at them. And one, without a “whistle” and silicone, a young woman, suddenly pulls out a Kindle e‑reader and starts reading. Stunned, I overcame my natural shyness, sat down next to her and said: 

- What are you reading? 

- “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”. 

- Cool. His first novel is also good. “Joke”. 

- What do you mean – a joke? 

- The novel is called “Joke”. 

- Ahh. How can I help? 

I think that’s how she politely sends it. 

- I was just surprised, everyone uses phones, and you’re on an e‑reader. Let me, I think, ask – why? 

The girl sat down and placed the e‑reader face down. 

- Nowadays almost nobody reads. Only old people. How old are you? 

- Forty. 

- There you go. And I thought – if I read, it will become my competitive advantage. Did you know that reading is a unique process that forms unique neural connections? 

I nodded. 

- There you go. And I also thought – my friends get lip augmentations, breasts, buttocks, trying to conquer the world of men with round‑the‑clock sexuality. But men don’t need round‑the‑clock sexuality. Ten minutes a day, at most fifteen. So they invest a lot of money into their bodies, and those bodies are in demand for ten minutes. And the remaining twenty‑three hours fifty minutes – what? Nothing! Because the inner world is in a nascent state. A normal man just isn’t interested in that. Moreover, the body ages quickly. Phew! And all your investments sag, deflate. That’s why I decided to invest in the inner world. Yes, I don’t have such lips and breasts, but I’m interesting, I know a lot. A man will talk to me and eat sand just to talk again. And when I grow old, my inner world will only become richer. You sow into flesh, you reap decay; you sow into spirit – eternal life. Well, maybe not eternal, but at least I’m not bored when I’m alone with myself. 

Considering the question closed, the girl lay down and buried herself in Kundera. I leaned over, scooped up some sand, brought it to my lips and… slowly let it slip through my fingers. After all, there was no girl. It was me lying with a Kindle e‑reader, and no one else was lying there, just like with a book. Am I a representative of a dying art? It’s like drifting in the ocean and being rescued by the “Titanic”. Sunset over the sea. A tempera painter on egg emulsion finishes reading Updike.

(C) Selukov