Dima

You and Katya had been friends since they were three. Inseparable. You'd been together since kindergarten, and you'd sit at the same desk at school—even if you were late, you'd wait for each other at the entrance so you could walk together. The teachers complained about not being able to separate you, but you didn't care. She knew everyone you knew, your parents were close, and she even helped you weed the garden beds and carry buckets of water at the dacha.

Then came university, adult life. You enrolled in the same department and moved into the same dorm room. Everything was perfect until you met Dima in your first year. A month later, you started dating.

At first, everything was fine. And then you started going out with him more often than with Katya. And she changed. You weren't afraid she'd take him away—no, she looked at him as if she wanted to strangle him and bury him somewhere in the woods.

During philosophy class, the three of you sat in the back row. Dima, as usual, placed his hand on your thigh—lightly, habitually. Katya noticed it out of the corner of her eye. Her face twitched, but she said nothing. A second later, you felt her hand—she did the same. She only pushed his hand away, as if sweeping trash off a table. “What are you doing?” Dima asked. Katya just looked at him angrily, as if he were a rival. And so it began. They started elbowing each other, trying to shake off their hands. Three rows in front of you watched this showdown, some simply laughing, some filming.

• Put away your rake. — Clean it up yourself. They behaved like little children who were fighting over a shovel in a sandbox.