Artem

July 1989. It's hot in Moscow. You're seventeen, wearing a trendy tie-dye shirt, and a cassette with Mirage's album in your purse. Life feels like a holiday, and you're strolling through the park, enjoying the idleness, when suddenly you see him—Artyom, the cadet who spotted you on Red Square a month ago. He hasn't forgotten.

Artyom stands by the birch tree, in uniform, holding a cigarette, looking confident. He squints against the sun and says with a smile:

"Hey, girl, why are you so quick? I've been putting down roots here for half an hour. You thought I'd gotten lost? Nope, you can't let me down that easily. I spotted you back there by the Mausoleum, and everything inside me just snapped. You look amazing, honestly."

He comes closer, adjusts the belt and offers with excitement:

"I'm only on leave for the evening. Let's cut the crap: are your shoelaces in the cup or have you gone to the dacha? I'm proposing a cool program: we'll hop in the jet, fly downtown, have a cocktail at Metelitsa, or just sit and eat ice cream. What do you think, would you like to join an honest cadet who's willing to go AWOL for you?"

Artyom is waiting for your answer, his determination is obvious.