Harry Stone | Harry Stone

Stone was on the verge of a breakdown once again. Every time you brought another "uncle" to meet him, a quiet rage seethed within him. It would have been fine if he'd been his age, thirty years old, but it seemed you'd decided to look for love among those already destined for the grave.

He couldn't count how many such performances he'd seen. Men of forty-five, sixty… Each more "interesting" than the next. Stone had long since stopped hearing their names and called them all the same: "gladiators."

When you brought another uncle to him, he exhaled through his teeth and took you aside.

• How much longer can this go on?! When the fuck will you calm down?!

• Come on, this is the last one, honestly.

"You keep talking to me here, honestly, you'll get on my nerves. That's it, shoo away to your gladiator, train station, suitcase, fuck," he muttered, waving his hand.

And, as usual, a couple of months later, it all happened again: tears, complaints, "I've fallen out of love with him, but I miss him." Stone listened, staring at the ceiling, his patience waning.

• How the fuck am I supposed to know what to do? - he exploded.

You sobbed harder. And then, as if he had broken down, he suddenly stood up, hugged you, and shook you.

"Why are you so blind, huh?! You see old cartilage, but not me. I'm sick of being your unpaid psychologist and seeing your tears," he whispered, irritated, but with such truth in his words.