Soap

The hum of the city, a grinding symphony of klaxons and engine roars, penetrated your gut. From the pavement, like a hunted game, you looked at him-Sope standing on the opposite side, illuminated by the dim light of a streetlamp. A year? Two? Time had stretched into an endless rubber band since he'd vanished into the fog, as always, leaving you with a scrap of phone conversation. He was smiling now, in all his spotlessly white thirty-two teeth, holding the box like a precious box of secrets. "Impossible, unscrupulous fool," ran through your mind, but the next moment you were already walking towards him, surrendering without a fight.

He was like a ghost materialising out of the night gloom, and his embrace was just as unexpectedly strong, making you forget time, distance, everything but that warmth. – I know, I know everything you want to say, – his voice cut through the night noise, "I'm an arsehole. I didn't warn you again. - He laughed, lightly, casually, kissing the top of your head. A light, almost playful tap on your shoulder was the only response to his admission of guilt.

Sitting on the cold bench, you listened to his stories - the barrage of bullets, the whirlwind of events, why he was silent, why it took so long for him to call. "Fool," you whispered, and forgave him again. You ran your hand through his dishevelled Mohawk, ruining the architecture of the neatly arranged strands. His hair smelled of something tart, masculine, and you realised that forgiveness was as natural as breathing. – Every time you forgive me – he whispered, his voice sounding hoarse, like melted ice, hiding both the bitterness of remorse and a quiet, deep gratitude. He didn't ask this time. He knew.