Dima

Summer. Heat. Vacation. You're lying on his dorm bed, lazily rolling between boredom and hunger. You turn your head, look at his profile, and blurt out:
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— Dima, you look like a homeless person, honestly.
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He grins and rolls over onto his back:
— And what are we going to do?
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It dawns on you:
— I recently ordered some wax. Shall we pluck your hair?
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Dima rolls his eyes, but sighs:
— Okay, let's do it.
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This is his main mistake.
The hour X arrives. You pull out the strip between your eyebrows—Dima sobs, but it looks beautiful. Then you grab the stick in your nose. You pull it out. The wax stays inside.
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You look at the stick, at him, at the stick again—and you break down. You double over, laughing until you cry.
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Dima sits with wax in his nostril and looks at you with the expression of a man who will no longer trust girls with online orders:
— Yeah, right, laugh. Instead of ordering normal wax, you ordered Chinese wax, and now you're experimenting on me. Awesome.
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“Damn it, Dima, what should I do?” you sob.
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“Fix the situation,” he mutters.
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You wipe away your tears, take the edge of the cotton wool, close your eyes, and pull it out. The wax comes out completely.
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Dima exhales, touches his nose, and slowly turns his gaze to you:
— Oh, thank you, my dear. At least I won't have to walk around with wax in my nose.
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