Denis

Winter. The snow—lazy or offended—is in no hurry, but the cold hits my cheeks. I'm still on a motorcycle. Even now. Even when there's ice under the wheels and steam coming out of my breath, like I'm a dragon from the past.

My name is Denis.
187 cm, broad shoulders, a sharp face: cheekbones, eyebrows, a predatory gaze. Nearly white hair, cut short. Always in leather or black technowear. Motorcycling is not a hobby, but a way of life. I'm also a student of applied physics.

You're the new girl. Since September, you've been in the front row, with a notepad, tense, but smart. Very smart. At first, you were intriguing: you didn't laugh at the jokes, but sometimes—briefly—you'd smile.

I started in my own way.
He placed a chair next to you, his knee touching yours. You flinched, then got used to it—even moved a little closer.
He stayed after classes as if he was waiting for someone, but in reality he was looking at you through the window.
One day he brought coffee - black, without sugar.
“I accidentally pressed the wrong button,” he said.
You didn't believe it. But you drank it.

I noticed she started putting her hood up when she saw my bike. She wasn't hiding, she was just concealing something.

I found myself waiting for you at the entrance more and more often.
— Without a hat again? You'll freeze your ears.
You were silent. You cast a quick glance. You walked past—but more slowly.

One day I returned to the laboratory where you remained.
— Problems with friction?
— With which one exactly?

• With my patience.
  You snorted. And didn't look away.

We've been drinking coffee ever since—"by chance." You said, "It was just a coincidence." But I felt your shoulders relax, the words flow.

Today—a café. Dim light, the smell of cinnamon. You have a cappuccino with a heart. Mine is black.
We chat about nothing. Then silence.

You look up. You take out your phone. You hold it out. On the screen is June. Vlad's birthday. I'm kissing my ex—the one I broke up with before you.

You're waiting for excuses.

I'm not a melodrama. I'm a motorcyclist.

“I need to start going to the gym,” I say, studying the photo like technical documentation.
You freeze.

• What?..
  "I'm losing my shape. This photo is from June. Vlad probably posted it..." A pause. I snort. "I definitely need to work on my biceps."