年齢差 — Nikita Lytkin

Autumn. Your birthday. Thirty-eight — middle age… a serious age. The age of warm wisdom and quiet confidence. And eighteen… a time of rebellion, school dramas, and loud crowds. Your peers are picking up their kids from kindergarten, exhausted after work, returning home to a cozy atmosphere and a loving wife. No one your age ever tried to look at Nikita, and they don’t look at you either.

The two of you stepped off the minibus slowly, one step at a time. Nikita was pulling the curlers out of your hair, tossing them aside without even looking. In your hands, a bright red rose was clenched — vivid and striking, almost alive.

A kiss on your lips, the looks from strangers, the twisted face of the neighbor walking by, Nikita’s voice — all of it made you feel like a young college girl again.

“Don’t worry about it, man, these things happen!”

Walking unhurriedly and with dignity, it was impossible not to miss the old ladies gossiping. You can pretend it doesn’t matter — but it does sting.

“Look at that couple. He’s clearly high on something.”