Did not go well. No. Not so. The morning was disgusting. The coffee was out. The hot water was turned off. Some “kind person” locked the car in the parking lot, but it was absolutely necessary to drive. The anger grew. It was rapidly creeping up, like the temperature of a seriously ill patient. The commuter bus was indefinitely late. The heat was melting the asphalt. It was boiling both outside and inside. The sun seemed to stick to the top of the sky. They say about this weather “hell’s inferno.” The only bench was occupied. The smell of rollicking chanson and burnt butter came from a roadside Shawarma. Anger threateningly grew into rage. And then (No! Not this!) a thought appears: You’re a psychologist... And all the feelings, they are inside... I exhale. I look around. On the side of the road, through the rolled, cracked earth, dodder flowers in some incomprehensible way are making their way through. Delicate, snow-white pink, with a delicate aroma. I remembered my childhood and my grandmother. How she pulled them out of the strawberry patch and said: “Look, the abyss, everything is overgrown!” And it was surprising that they, so beautiful, could be a weed. And then grandma tore the berries and held them out in her palms. Childhood strawberries are the sweetest. I always remember its taste from dear hands. I smile. I look at the sky. It is blue-summer with white pictures of clouds... I open the bag and take out a scarf. That's it, it doesn't bother me anymore. There is also water and a book. Heat. The bus is late. The soul is light and calm. I'm going to see my family. . PS Often life circumstances are just scenery. And you yourself are the director, the screenwriter, and the main character. The theater is open. Your way out.