Before the Bear could close the door, she had clambered up his leg, onto his shoulder, and was waving the dandelion at the ceiling.
It wasn’t a knock. It was a percussion solo performed by a tiny, red-cheeked tornado. Boom. Boom-boom. THUMP.
Then, the thumping started.
He didn't reach for his newspaper. He didn't reach for his tea.
She launched herself onto the couch, landing upside-down, her dress over her head. She went absolutely still for two entire seconds. Then her foot started wiggling. Then her fingers drummed the cushion. Then she whispered, loudly: “Are you doing nothing yet, Bear? Because I am doing spectacular nothing.” Masha e o Urso
He simply sat down next to her, very gently lifted her upright, and let her lean against his big, furry arm. For three whole minutes, under the pretense of “aggressive nothing,” the world was still again.
The Bear, a retired circus heavyweight with kind, weary eyes, lowered his newspaper. The quiet was perfect. The honey in his paw was golden. The world was still. Before the Bear could close the door, she
Masha frowned. “Hmm. Broken wand.” She tossed the dandelion. It landed in the Bear’s honey. “Okay, new plan! Let’s build a rocket ship to visit the moon. Or we could teach the pig to tap dance. Or—I know! Let’s do nothing!”
