Those two who were walking and laughing

"Today is April the 18th and we can't express how sorry we are...Today Gabriel Garcia Marquez died."-said my radio in cold and insensible voice. Stop.

What?! I never turn off my radio, nice habit of a lonely person, but today it was the first time I really regret about it. You know, it doesn't sound like the best "good morning" in my life.

The speaker quickly moved on more "interesting" topics: high prices, crazy politics, few murders, some scandal pop-star...nothing more about Marquez. Nothing. These words about his death were just lost in everyday garbage and I started to wonder, if somebody heard this as clear as me? Said good bye to new books, the old ones, to favorite author..hope so. Just hope.

The aged maybe are the most sensitive to such news. And the case is not even in death, you are getting used to it as the years go by, the case is in the end of the era, genre, movement, whole ideology. No writer - like no more books, history, that moments in your life, when you were passionately looking for them or asked friends "to read, to take home, just overnight." No singer - and no more feeling, that your record is dozen years old, but this man can make a new one, even better, and you'll go and buy it. All these small part of a puzzle like signs of belonging to time, small anchors, that hold you, keep in here, don't let to feel yourself like a dinosaur.

According to all laws of time and my passport I am a dinosaur, though I never feel myself like this. But people usually don't care much how do you feel and see yourself. For my kids I'm a nice granny, for grandchildren - some kind of antediluvian. 10-years old Ella calls me "a time-machine", and small Lila laugh all the time when she is watching my old photos or dresses in the closet. "Oh, wow, granny, why were you looking like this?" And laughing again. Sometimes I want to answer, that she also, someday, after living a half of the century on this Earth will notice, that all she loved, cared about, considered as essential, important, now is just a purpose to laugh. But I kept silent.

Marques is dead...and Bradbury is dead...I still remember how we got their books, just few of them, and tenderly put them under the glass of our shop. Our small bookstore was proud of the fact, that we the first bought works of new authors, who lately became very and very popular. Our director felt such things. And now store is not exist anymore, authors and out director is not alive anymore...I tried to stop these melancholy thoughts. Enough. It s a con against gray hairs - too much thoughts and even more time to think.

I finally got up from the bed end went to have a breakfast. Mornings are passing quickly usually, but evenings are much more harder. Funny, all your life you think "When finally I will not have problems?" And here its is: you are old and no more problems. But why it felt better when you were worrying about money, dinner, friends, getting married and kids all the time? Just why?

I went to other room and turned on the TV: nothing interesting except new about the mourning in Colombia. Ah, I wanted to be there so much! To be dressed in all black, sit under the hot sun, listen to all this noise from the street and tell my friends and neighbors "Yes, exactly, he was special. Not everyday such people born.Si.Si."

I gasped and decided to go shopping. It was so bright on the other side of my window and a big bunch of aromas and sounds was really tempting. I saw the spring so many times but it feels like I ll never stop admire it. Sometimes it seems like through ages only your outer shell is changing, but not your soul. And now hot asphalt, spicy air, new born leaves, violets invited me to go outside, to run from one end of the street to another, to walk in the forest, or just lay on the grass looking up. But grown-ups, aged people especially don't do it. In fact, they don't do much. Just worry about billions of unnecessary things at the same time, things, they could not remember in few years.

The shop nearby was almost empty, half of the people were studying, the other half - working. I could see only a woman of my age, bored young boy and a small kid with some money in sweaty hands and a strong desire to buy an ice-cream. The air in this shop was not moving at all, everything seemed to be sleepy, lifeless. I moaned and decided to buy a bottle of beer. When I was young, they always didn't want to sell it to me, thinking that my ID was fake. It was my fault: I looked like a 15-years girl, simple truant, for a long, endless time: small height, big eyes, childish smile and my favorite flourish dresses. Now my age is not even a question. But whether it s good or not I haven't decided yet.

I walked towards the fridge and occasionally bumped in somebody. Few seconds and I understood who is here, in front of me - my first love. Now he looked exactly like me - old, tired, lost. But I still remembered him as a loud, black-haired, bold boy, who played the guitar and flirted almost with every girl around. Yes, it was exactly how I saw him for years - impulsive, charismatic, emotional, the boy who didn't think about yesterday or tomorrow. And back then, when we were sixteen, we called each other "my light", smoked the first cigar together and walked day and night. But who need these memories now..now he is just gray-haired, squeezed old man, who live nearby. I just wonder, how I met him only for a first time, I've already half of the year lived here, at home again.

-Oh, you.. I haven't seen you...-he was surprised, but at the same time it seemed nothing bother him.

-Yeap. Me - all I could say.

Funny, how little I wanted to talk about with him right now. For what? But back then I was so in love...5 years together was quite a term for our age.

We were still silent, when bough everything and went out the shop. Nothing. We both were cold, didn't know what to say, how to behave. And the main question in both our heads was "For what?"

I took his hand, but it was nothing compared to what we had - passion, love, affection, flirt, quarrels. I just helped the old man, but still tried to hold this memory about him as young, independent, charming boy I loved for the first time in my life.

-Nice weather. - Suddenly he raised his head.-Spring. I know you love spring. The same weather, maybe date when we had our first dates, walks, kisses..you remember.

-Kisses...I remember. - like an echo I answered, looking at the bright sky and tried to remember those feelings. Hah, nothing. It doesn't matter now. All that feelings I thought were so bright - no. People meet each other every day, kiss each other, make love..No, what matters is that today died the magical realism. The day when died those book, our shop, memories, people I once knew. All my life just faded away, not just some  sweet love memories.

Awkward silence again.

We needed to move so we went to this back alley with flourished trees. When we were kids, we always arranged to meet each other here. I was always late, and he loved to pretend that he is so mad at me. So many years, so many events, but alley didn't change much. And here, like 50 years ago, were walking two kids. She laughed, and he tried to kiss her in the cheek. And we were walking too, in the back. They were fast, one minute and they are already far from us, slow and old lost people. We were walking, holding hands and watching at our feet or on each other.

I couldn't stand this and said:

-You saw them, those two, who were walking and laughing? Is it really happens? I mean...

He smiled like in old timed and whispered:

-It always happens, and only this way. Those two, we, somebody before us and apparently somebody after. I'm just wondering, what names belong to them now.

Author's Note

Ignore grammar problems, please, I'm not a native speaker and this translation from Russian was done really fast.
Tell me all you think about the story, please, and let me know all about the plot, characters, idea.
Thank you so much!

P.S.: I would appreciate your kindness, it's my debut in English written story and I really worry that the text lost its charm in translation.