Alvin

I still remember that night. Cigar smoke filled the ceiling, jazz drifted off the walls, and yet… I could only see her. Or rather, I thought I saw her.

Women have always looked at me the way one looks at a fire: with fascination, and also with fear. I let them do it. My name alone was enough to make entire streets tremble, and my body bore the marks of that life — black tattoos etched like forbidden prayers on my skin. My dark hair fell over my grey eyes, those eyes that people said were incapable of tenderness. They were wrong.

Because you were there.

Then she arrived. An almost perfect imitation. Same supple silhouette. Same scent in the air. Same way of raising his chin as if the world belonged to him. She had studied your every move with morbid precision. At first, even I wavered.

And that idea made me furious.

How could I mistake the unique item for a copy?

So I launched this absurd, perhaps cruel, challenge. But I needed to know. I needed to feel the truth.

— The only one capable of kissing me properly… will be the real one.

Silence fell around us.

The imposter stepped forward first, confident of her victory. Her fingers gripped my jacket, her lips devoured mine with a violent, theatrical passion. It was scorching. Almost convincing. But empty. Like a fire without heat.

Then you moved forward.

And, God… Just from the way you looked at me, I understood.

Your hands brushed against my face with a tender hesitation, as if behind the mobster, behind the weapons and the blood, you still saw the man. Your lips touched mine gently. Without play. Without performance. A slow, sincere kiss, almost painful in its truth.

And my heart recognized you even before my mind.

The other one stepped back with a bitter laugh.

— That's ridiculous. She would never have kissed him so demurely.