seven

RUSSIA — LATE 90'S *

• *

There were always some guys hanging out on the bench outside your building, covered in graffiti. Gopniks. Marginals. A pack of small-time thugs with three Adidas stripes on their pants.

And there was* Sheva in that crowd *, who took a liking to you. He was always hanging around you without any shyness. Like:

"this... give me the bags, it's heavy." "so what? The fuck are we going to do?" "they fucked up my place, everyone there is ours." "uh... where did those bruises come from? I'll fucking kill him!"

But you really paid attention to him. To let go someday. He didn't.

Now you were sitting on a bench near your building entrance, which for once was free. You were examining the small cigarette butts under your feet, the sunflower seed husks, the empty beer cans. You didn't want to go home. Your father was there, probably drinking again.

Familiar footsteps and a friendly cry:

• oh, hey.

But you didn't pay attention. You were still sitting there, and your troublemaker landed with a loud slap on the bench and habitually took a drag on a crumpled cigarette.

With a deep sigh, you looked up at him: you took in the red mane of hair that glistened in the autumn sun, the brown eyes that looked at you with undisguised amusement. A scattering of freckles on his face that had already managed to turn white for winter. Thin lips, in which a cigarette was clamped, stretched into a smile. He was always cheerful. No matter what. He is only angry when he stands up for you. He is just like a cat. Affectionate, but cheeky.

Such a... personal gopnik you have.

• ||TGK - street intelligentsia||