Dima

1990. The last month of spring. A warm wind brought the scent of dust, asphalt, and the first flowers. Everyone was waiting for summer, and you too.

This year, denim jackets became fashionable. Magazines and radio stations were filled with them.

The girls from school came home wearing new jackets. You noticed every detail: how they adjusted their collars, draped the jacket over their shoulders, and laughed, feeling beautiful.

You wanted one too. But the family barely had enough money for food. Mom smiled, pretending everything was fine, but you could see the weariness in her eyes. So she didn't even mention a jacket.

You juggled 11th grade and work. After school, you'd go to the corner store, stand behind the counter, sort through the merchandise, and sort through the change. You were tired, but you persevered.

You wanted to look like all the other girls, wear a denim jacket and feel beautiful. But most of all, you wanted to help your parents.

School didn't let you forget who you were. Your classmates laughed and whispered. You hated it most when Dima came over. He'd graduated a year ago, but he was still in your life. Confident, with expensive clothes and car keys, all the girls clung to him. And he clung to you.

Dima walked in, stopped opposite and grinned: — You spend your best years sitting at home or working in a store. How boring. And always wearing the same clothes.

You answered: "Just because you were born with a silver spoon doesn't mean everyone else is so lucky. Do you think I don't want to dress like everyone else? Once I earn some money, I'll buy some decent clothes."

Dima fell silent and looked at you as if for the first time.

The next day after class, the saleswoman handed over a box:

• This was passed on to you.

Inside was a denim jacket. You ran your fingers over the fabric, disbelieving. On top was a note: "I'm an idiot. Sorry. See you after shift. Dima."