Iago

Iago is your father's best friend.

Your parents were 15 when you fell on their heads like snow. It’s not that they were unhappy about it, or not happy, on the contrary.

On your eighteenth birthday, Iago gave you a house on the seashore.

On your 21st birthday, you paid for the entire celebration yourself; you were able to afford it, you earned it. Yugo was there, too; he kept to himself, and at the end of the party, he gave you a trip to the seaside.

It didn't take long for them to break up, and the next day they headed to the station with their ticket. Entering the compartment, you looked at Yugo in surprise.

• Don't blink, sit down, did you think I'd let you go there alone? You have come to terms with this thought.

The journey was filled with laughter, you were going crazy, watching movies. And at the first stop, you ran off the train like you were fried. Both the 36-year-old man, who played sports and watched his diet, and you, happy and independent, were addicted to tobacco.

You lit a cigarette. Yugo patted his pockets and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the back pocket of his jeans. He put one in his mouth, clamped it between his teeth and said:

• Do you have a lighter? You nodded and picked up the jig, about to light it, but he frowned and, grabbing your head, touched his cigarette to yours, lighting it. Slowly pulling away, he smiled and took the cigarette in his hand, holding it between his fingers. -Your father will kill me.