The Algorithm of Chaos - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов

‘You bet! Exactly two times. In the elevator’.

‘Ah! Sure! How could I…’ He shook his head at his leaky memory. He remembered now.

She nodded acknowledging the recollection, then continued, ‘And each time I thought “Let him smile, at least smile at me and I would speak up. I swear, I would!’ You were too busy though with your thoughts, they saved you my intrusion.

‘But how come… there on the landing I did not hear your door lock?’

‘I was leaving when Auntie called me for a moment. I returned to tuck her in and then opened the presently unlocked door to meet your freaked out back. Don’t be too suspicious, V.’

‘Geez!.’

‘Impressive, huh? You should be seeing your face now!. No sweat. When you see your friend out, his gratitude at times is too overwhelming for him to keep it back. A couple of nearby floors, up an down, could learn your name but I happened also to see who he was happy with’.

‘You’re real cute, Leya. You surely had got it there’s a real danger to stick your neck out. Why did you help… well, save me?’

‘I like you for half a year as of yet. That’s why. And now tell me what was all that about’.

‘I wish I knew…’

* * *

9

It is the eternal war of sexes which never subsides. The adversaries maneuver, camouflage their moves and intentions, openly attack or sabotage subversively, take advantages, POW's, use each other (abuse? yeah, that also happens but if it’s what you’re after, you’ve got into a wrong neck of wood, kid! so move along, to the pulp fiction of your favorite kind), make truce in order to stockpile armament, disengage so as to regroup. With all vacillation in the warfare methods and trendy accouterments to the uniform one thing stands solidly true – this war never ends, never will.

As in any war, there are non-combatants, peace-clinging wusses promoting unisex, mean traitors, unknown heroes, deserters dropping arms on the flight, privateers, guerrillas, fortune-makers, turncoats, seekers to square accounts, and other birds of any tinge in the spectrum of their feathers. (Let’s don’t even remotely dare scratch the surface of LGBT warfare which is way too slippery a subject to plunge into because it calls for a different mindset and acquaintance with voluminous studies on their folklore, customs, and rites, and… well not for this here modest work. Still, even in those collaterally diminished scrambles war cannot change its spots and remains likewise dirty and smelly. Period.)

The situation gets even more complicated and aggravated by the fact that sexes are not unanimous aggregation of individuals turned into personnel for cooperative gains in the war theater. Nope. Each one stays a separate fighter with an eye on their specific ends. Everyone for themselves and let Old Nick take the hindmost, you know.

(What? Who mumbled there “How about cooperation in a cluster-fucking case?” Hey, kid! You’ve been told to get the fuck out of here! Huh? Beat it!)

A scrutiny with proper zoom in shows numberless clashes of everybody against everybody else where a warrior of your sex is not automatically your buddy and would willingly pull your leg in order to sleep with your enemy, the one you’re engaged in current confrontation. Sad but true…

And here comes even more convoluted stuff. Incomprehensible. Inexplicable. Annoyingly elusive. Yet, a serious researcher is not to bypass it without taking a shot. Yes, you might’ve guessed it already, all that is about the ignominious deviation in the established system and order of things. The shameful surrender it is, the suicidal idiocy when you humbly bring to your foe a wide earthware dish with your own head, fried up and spiced, upon it. A pretty tricky stunt, technically, but metaphorically – just a cinch.

Of course, the like phenomenon fully deserves to be named with a four-letter word. Which conjecture keeps true with the factual appellation. You, probably, have guessed it once again: “L”, “O”, “V”, “E”.

As a vigilant sort of a guy, V knew that females possess a kinda “Secret Weapon”besides the items in the well-advertised armory of their sex. He wasn’t sure though if all of them had got the equipment. V’d rather prefer they didn’t after a couple of times being exposed to it. Some mighty thing, he should admit. The intelligence on SW whose effectiveness he had experienced first-hand in the surprise attacks he never disclosed to anyone.

How to describe? It’s like she suddenly collects in her facial features a bunch of condensed beauty accumulated by the fair sex generations since Nefertiti up to present days (strangely enough, except for Misses America), and shoots that all-conquering radiance at you, thru her joyously winning eyes, like, she bounces a ball lightning. And you got struck OK, yep, buddy, you do get struck.

Falling in love at first sight, huh? Now V knew how it’s done.

Luckily, V turned out to be of love-proof type. He did appreciated the impact, shocking delight and admiration, yet withstood manly and then he took the second look. That served a life-saving antidote. Still, thank you for the try, babe! It was a close call, I swear.

Noteworthy, guys of his own sex never used that SW at him. Saving their "balls”? Or was he not a proper hunt game? Whatever…

Still, no one can evade their destiny. The panel of stars read up their verdict and V fell a victim to love. No SW was applied. The girl he loved (not yet suspecting it, poor devil) looked pretty cool, indifferent, and introvert. Later on, the ice was broken, melted, started to boil intensely.

He never admitted it, no, not even before himself. He tried to name it simply “liking”.

‘Yes, I like her, no use denying’.

Fool! You can’t deceive yourself! No one can, for that matter, whatever well-argumentative lies they