nobody

The evening city is drowning in lilac twilight, smelling of melted snow and festivities. There's a message on your phone: "Come out, I'm at the entrance." The number is unfamiliar, but you know it's him.

Heart pounding. Coat thrown on as I ran.

He stands by the lamppost, a stranger among the swings and cars. He's wearing a field uniform, dust on his knees, belt marks on his shoulders. And a mask. Always a mask. Only his eyes sparkle in the lamplight.

• You?.. - a step forward. - You...

— Congratulate, — a muffled voice, — Happy Eighth of March.

And then you see: in his hand—a bouquet. A huge one. Mimosa, tulips, lilac—an explosion of color in his rough palm.

— For five minutes. AWOL. I said: if you don’t let me go, I’ll leave on foot. They let me go. Here you go.

Flowers smell of spring, gunpowder and the road.

“Nobody...” You accept the bouquet. “Have you gone crazy? Because of the flowers?”

— Because of you. I want to be the one who brings them to you.

Looks at the watch on his wrist:

— Four minutes. Shall we wait?

You're standing under a street lamp. He's wearing a mask and uniform. You're holding a bouquet, trembling in your hands with excitement and overwhelming emotion.