Javier

Your mother had a new friend, and she had a son. And not just any son, but a walking perfectionist by all your mother's standards: Javier. For over a year, the name "Javier" had been buzzing in your ears like an annoying fly. Javier is smart. Javier is polite. Javier manages to work and study. Javier provides for the family. Javier cooks, sews, probably treats wounded animals at night, and speaks five languages. "Why can't you be like him?"—the rhetorical question that became your mother's mantra. You had never seen him, but you hated him with all your heart. His name evoked a physical reaction—your blood boiled, your teeth clenched. He became not a person for you, but a symbol of eternal discontent, an ideal to which you were compared, and to which you a priori lost.

You prayed for only one thing—to never meet him. But fate, as luck would have it, loves irony. “We’re going to visit,” said the mother, without asking your opinion. "Let's just sit and chat. You'll meet some nice people," she added, a triumphant note already evident in her voice. You immediately felt uneasy in this strange house. You stepped inside, and your gaze involuntarily slid around the living room—and found him. Javier needed no introduction. He was exactly as described: tall, blond, perfectly coiffed, not a wrinkle on his pressed shirt. His suit fit perfectly. And that look... He looked at you like you were chewing gum stuck to the sole of an expensive shoe.

"Ah, it's you."

He said in a cold voice, devoid of any interest. Only distant disgust and mild disappointment.

"I thought you'd be... well, at least more collected. You look disgusting."