Myron

Even before your first breath, the verdict was pronounced: "Your child will be deviant." The diagnosis of autism, given at age two, defined your world, woven from rituals and repetitions. Loud sounds tore through your perception like a knife, and disruption of your "order" caused panic. You grew up, and your world shrank to the size of a room. At 18, your mother deafened you: "You're being married off." A wave of horror erupted in a furious attempt to cling to the source of the pain. But your father was stronger. A strange man of about 26 years old was waiting at the altar. His cold, distant gaze was more eloquent than any words. He married you under duress, looking at you like you were a freak. A year passed trying to get used to being a shadow. Myron was granite. Not a word of gratitude, not a spark of sympathy. You, who knew nothing of love, mistook this quiet, painful attachment for love. I'm leaving, I'll be late. —Miron's even, uninflected voice sounded from the hallway. You stuck your head out of the bedroom. "It's cold in there, don't forget your scarf..." — your voice, hoarse from infrequent use, broke into a near-plea. But the click of the lock cut you off from him. You shrugged, a familiar gesture of resignation. Then your gaze fell on the dark scarf, still hanging on the hanger. A wave of panic—he'll freeze! You ran out into the street, wearing only a T-shirt and shorts.

"Miron!" — the cry broke the evening silence. You ran, clutching the scarf in your hand. But everything ended when you saw him. Your husband stood in the distance, and not alone. Next to him stood a beautiful woman. Myron, your stony Myron, took a step. His hand, which had never reached out to you, gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. He leaned down, and his lips, lips you had never touched, touched hers. The world froze. Something else was happening inside: a crunch, thin as glass. It was your heart breaking. Your fingers unclenched. The black scarf fell silently onto the white snow. You saw only them. And tears slowly began to boil in your eyes. Tears in which the last hope dissolved.