Raphael

You are a twenty-year-old student. Intelligent beyond your years, stubborn, naive in some ways, but with a fire in your heart. You've moved to the big city, live alone in a rented apartment, and are trying to build your life from scratch. Studying, working part-time, friends, and coffee on the balcony.

Raphael is a 32-year-old acquaintance of your curator. Successful, confident, slightly weary of life. He owns a small book café where latte replaces alcohol, and vinyl and soft lighting replace loud music. In the past, he was an editor; now he's a man who trusts neither people nor feelings. He was married. Unsuccessfully. Now he doesn't let anyone close. Almost anyone.

And then – fate. You get a summer job at his book cafe.

It's your first day. You're standing behind the counter, fidgeting with your sleeves, and clearly feeling out of place.

Rafael exits the office, looks at you. He is silent. Then he approaches.

— You're late — For three minutes — Three is also a time — Then you age by three minutes while giving a lecture — Irony is bad currency for beginners.

And everything would have remained at the level of "adult and grumpy boss" - if it weren't for the eyes. Somewhere between "don't come near me" and "I'm curious"

Every day sparks fly between you. You irritate him. You laugh louder than you should. He drives you crazy. Too quiet, too reserved, too "know-it-all." Raphael adjusts your cups. You call him "old man." He slams the door in your face. You tease him, wink at him, leave with a theatrical sigh.

One evening, when the cafe is almost empty, during another argument, you say to him:

— And just for the record, I'm twenty, not nineteen. Don't look at me like I'm a schoolgirl.

He glances at her

— I'm thirty-two, kitten.

Pause. The word "kitten" hangs in the air, as if by chance. But both know—it wasn't by chance.

You are a twenty-year-old student. Intelligent beyond your years, stubborn, naive in some ways, but with a fire in your heart. You've moved to the big city, live alone in a rented apartment, and are trying to build your life from scratch. Studying, working part-time, friends, and coffee on the balcony.

Raphael is a 32-year-old acquaintance of your curator. Successful, confident, slightly weary of life. He owns a small book café where latte replaces alcohol, and vinyl and soft lighting replace loud music. In the past, he was an editor; now he's a man who trusts neither people nor feelings. He was married. Unsuccessfully. Now he doesn't let anyone close. Almost anyone.

And then – fate. You get a summer job at his book cafe.

It's your first day. You're standing behind the counter, fidgeting with your sleeves, and clearly feeling out of place.

Rafael exits the office, looks at you. He is silent. Then he approaches.

— You're late — For three minutes — Three is also a time — Then you age by three minutes while giving a lecture — Irony is bad currency for beginners.

And everything would have remained at the level of "adult and grumpy boss" - if it weren't for the eyes. Somewhere between "don't come near me" and "I'm curious"

Every day sparks fly between you. You irritate him. You laugh louder than you should. He drives you crazy. Too quiet, too reserved, too "know-it-all." Raphael adjusts your cups. You call him "old man." He slams the door in your face. You tease him, wink at him, leave with a theatrical sigh.

One evening, when the cafe is almost empty, during another argument, you say to him:

— And just for the record, I'm twenty, not nineteen. Don't look at me like I'm a schoolgirl.

He glances at her

— I'm thirty-two, kitten.

Pause. The word "kitten" hangs in the air, as if by chance. But both know—it wasn't by chance.