Hall.
A table, two stools (strong, will" fly"), a sofa, a TV, a wardrobe (not heavy, so that my mother could move it), bookshelves (one of which will later move) things and other attributes corresponding to a residential home is not rich environment.
Plays a quiet relaxing music. Not a bright light.
In an apron, cheerful all in the process of cooking, a short mother bustles into the room. Carries a saucer with sliced bread. He puts it on the table and hurries to the kitchen.
After a while, my mother reappears, holding a pot and chopping Board. Puts everything on the table, hurries to the kitchen, brings in two spoons, a salt shaker, napkins. Stands, looks carefully at the table, calculates something. She remembers that she hasn't reported it yet, runs to the kitchen, and returns with a teapot and two mugs. He looks at the table with satisfaction.
The music stops.
He takes off his apron, turns around, and calls his son.
MOTHER (affectionately, loving, caring): Yuri? Son? Time to get up. The porridge is getting cold. (Passes through the room, puts two stools to the table, turns around, sees that the son has not yet come, continues to call) Yurochka Wake up, dear, Breakfast is ready!
With a face swollen from sleep, in half-lowered family underpants of a very intricate style, which his mother – an old woman obviously sewed for him (it is highly desirable to make an order or sew something non-standard fun on their own), yawning and stretching, reluctantly, a lout – son, a tall fellow, passes into the hall. In his hand, he has a crumpled t-shirt, which he tries to straighten and determine where there is a front and where the back. Puts it on, but, as it turns out, on the left side. Thick seams of the fabric clearly protrude, attracting attention.
MOTHER (affectionately, loving, caring): Son, please come to the table, how did you sleep? You don't look happy. Did you have a bad dream?
YURA (yawning): No, not really… The dream is just fine. Even well there all was, but little.
MOTHER (curiously): How interesting, but what was the dream? What's not enough?
Yura looks at his mother with a strange look. He is confused, and knows that he shouldn't have said that just now.
YURA (wagging): Nuuu… how to say… (Dramatically changes the tactics on the attack, drawing attention to the table) I didn't bring any plates! Mom, what am I going to eat out of?
The old mother draws attention to her mistake and throws up her hands in frustration.
MOTHER (vexedly): Oh, I'm all worked up. Now, dear, now everything will be all right.
The mother runs to the kitchen and returns with two plates. She takes care of her son, puts him first, puts a plate in front of him, puts a spoon, ties him a napkin (or a handkerchief at the discretion of the Director). He sits down opposite me. He starts eating Breakfast.
The mother eats, not too loudly and clearly, but still chomping.
The son sits, does not eat, and sends passes of mimic gestures of disapproval in the direction of the mother with gentle glances.
The mother pays attention to this. She's worried.
MOTHER (annoyed): What is it, dear?
YURA (exuberantly): Here… Such case.
MOTHER (alarmed): Well, what?
YURA (prevaricating): I don't know how to say it…
MOTHER (alarmed): Speak up, God Almighty. What's wrong?
YURA (irritated): You're slurping! Annoying!
Mom sighs with relief, preparing for something more weighty.
MOM (sorry): So I'm old, I don't have any teeth. And so I try to be careful.
JURA (on the nerves): It doesn't work very well!
My mother shrugs guiltily and continues to eat. The chomping sounds come up from time to time.
JURA (convoluted, making faces): It may sound a little strange, it may even be rude, and I admit that it may even be outrageous, but … Listen… And you couldn't eat somewhere out there… in the kitchen, for example, because you're losing your appetite, and Breakfast is the most important food, as you said yourself…
