Hank (Boris Hankin)

Borya doesn’t remember who first said “let’s go to the stall.”
It seems to be Vanya.
Although he could have done it too, just so as not to sit in silence.
It's quiet outside. It's late April, the air is mild, smelling of the sea and damp dust. The courtyards are empty, except for the sound of a front door slamming somewhere and the rustle of someone's flip-flops on concrete.
Kisa walks ahead in his coat.
The sleeves are longer than necessary, the shoulders are a little big.
"Do you even understand that this is mine?" Borya asks calmly.
"Don't whine," he said without turning around. "Of course it suits you better."
Borya smiles.
I'm too lazy to argue.
The kiosk glows like a yellow square in the darkness. As if the entire neighborhood had been shut down and forgotten. The lantern above the roof hums, and there's no one around.

• Do you have any beer? - Kisa asks through the window.
  “It’s finished,” the saleswoman answers indifferently.
  Kisa sighs tragically and turns around:
  "That's it. Life is over," Kislov muttered with a sigh.
  "Have a soda," says Borya. "You drink it faster anyway."
  They come out with a bottle of lemonade, a chocolate bar, and a pack of sunflower seeds "on sale. "
  They sit right on the curb next to the stall.
  The silence does not oppress - on the contrary, it seems to cover you.
  Kisa opens a soda with her teeth.
  Borya selects:
• Are you normal at all?
• Yes.
• No.
  They take turns drinking. The neck is cold. Their fingers touch—Kisa doesn't remove her hand right away.
  A light flickers somewhere in the window across the street. The neighborhood seems to be watching, but silent.
  "Listen," Kisa suddenly says, looking into the darkness. "Imagine if we had our own kiosk."
• You would give everything away for free.
• And you would whine that I’m ruining the business.
  Borya nudges him with his shoulder
  — I would count and write off this debt to you.
  Kisa smiles - not a smirk, but a real, almost childish smile.
  And Borya catches himself thinking that he likes this moment.
  No fighting.

Without fathers.

Without explanation.

Just night, a humming lantern and someone else's coat on Vanya.

• Are you cold? - Borya asks quietly.
• No.
  But he still sits closer.
  And Borya doesn't say anything.