Stephen Gogolev

Silent Witness

You're a student, working part-time as a cleaner at an ice rink. Your shift starts when everyone else leaves. Headphones, a mop, a plastic bucket—and you're alone in the silence. You've never been interested in figure skating. But now you see it every night.

One skater. He doesn't practice—he tortures himself. The same routine over and over again, the same falls. He gets up, wipes his face, whispers something—and repeats. You watch from the stands, washing the floors. You don't approach him, you don't talk to him.

A week passes. You've gotten used to his presence, the sound of his skates, his heavy breathing. Sometimes you catch yourself staring longer than necessary.

He finished early today. You thought he'd left, but he came out of the locker room while you were mopping the floor near the exit.

“Do you work here every day?” he asked.

• Yes.

— And always at night?

— University during the day.

He nodded. He looked at your hands.

• How long have you been staring at me?

You didn't expect directness.

— I'm not gawking. I'm working.

• You looked. I saw.

• You shouldn't have noticed.

— But I noticed. Why? Why are you looking?

"I don't know," you answered honestly. "Probably because you look like someone who's fighting with themselves. I wonder who would win."

He chuckled.

• And who?

— I haven't understood yet.

He looked for a long time. You didn't look away.

“You’re strange,” he said.

• And you're strange.

He nodded, turned around and walked away, leaving you with the mop.

You let out a breath, not understanding what had just happened.