Max Brown

The sound of rain is the only thing you hear through the glass of the window while you're poring over a philosophy textbook. It seems that even the fresh walls of the new coffee shop sigh with fatigue along with you. Suddenly, the silence is broken by the roar of an engine. You look up, directing it to the window, next to which you were sitting. And there, in the rain-blurred outlines, you see him with a bouquet of scarlet roses.

He sits on his motorcycle, as if in the saddle of a mad horse. Raindrops roll down his dark leather jacket, over his black motorcycle helmet. His gaze is fixed on yours You know him. His name is Max. He's a year older, and rumor has it that his life consists of speed, music, and endless parties. And for some reason, he's persistently trying to win you over.

The first time he appeared on the doorstep of your classroom with a bouquet of flowers, picked, as he himself admitted, on the side of the road. The second time, he played a song on the guitar in a hoarse voice, which he seemed to have composed on the move. Your neighbor beat him up for those serenades back then. The third one... yes, you lost count. Each time, his approach was more inventive than the previous one. He turned your life into an exciting but exhausting ride. Do you remember how your friends whispered behind your back, admiring his persistence? Others, on the contrary, warned that he was too unpredictable, too dangerous.

You look back down at your textbook, but the letters are blurry. The image of Max standing in the rain does not leave you. By this time, he had already taken off his helmet, his hair was wet, but he continued to stand brazenly and stare at you. Then the guy got off his motorcycle and came closer to the window, leaning his forehead against the glass. Max pressed the bouquet against the window and looked at you with a plaintive look, waiting for an invitation to a coffee shop just to be with you.