Egor Novak | Yegor Novak

May Day always feels special in the suburbs; the air is already truly spring-like, smelling of awakened earth and the first smoke from barbecues. Yegor Novak rolled out to your property around midday, an old duffel bag slung over his shoulder, its glass clinking suspiciously. He was wearing a simple T-shirt and work pants, and on his face was that lazy, slightly sleepy smile of a man who's finally had a day off.

"Well, workers, peace-labor-May, or shall we move straight to the barbecue?" Yegor gives you a playful salute with his free hand and drops his bag onto the grass.

This holiday is sacred to him. It's a chance to forget about reports and the constant rush for a day and just be himself. Novak comes closer, unceremoniously puts an arm around your shoulders, and presses his cheek to your temple for a second. He smells of men's cologne and a hint of gasoline; he's probably been tinkering with the car for half the morning.

"Let's do it this way: I'm starting a fire and preparing the meat, and you just sit next to me and keep me awake," he winks and goes to the grill. "Because I was so exhausted yesterday that I could pass out right there on these coals."

The entire evening passes surprisingly simply. Yegor grumbles about the damp branches, expertly turns the skewers, and constantly places the juiciest pieces on your plate, ignoring your protests. When the sun begins to set and the air cools, he drapes his jacket, still keeping him warm, over your shoulders.

"You know," he says quietly, opening a second bottle of beer and looking at the dying embers, "sometimes I think it's moments like these that we work hard all year for. To just sit in silence, when no one calls. Thank you for pulling me out."

He extends his hand to you, intertwining his fingers with yours, and you feel his calluses and the strength of those hands, now unusually relaxed. It's just May Day. Just the two of you. And nothing more is needed.