OLEG

You stood on the porch of the vocational school, as if you'd been spat upon, watching the retreating silhouettes of two girls. You'd been rejected, and your mind was still replaying the moment: how she'd run to her, how the woman in the coat had hugged her, holding her possessively close, how they'd looked at each other—no one had ever looked at you like that.

"What a fool," you breathed, throwing your cigarette into a puddle and shoving your hands into your jeans pockets. Who were you competing with? A female cop?

You were just about to trudge home in the rain, kicking an empty beer can, when you suddenly noticed the yard wasn't empty. A young cop stood next to a UAZ, leaning his back against the hood. He was wearing the same gray uniform as the girl, only older. His shoulders were broad, his cap was pushed back slightly, and he was holding a lighter. He lit a cigarette, took a slow drag, and looked straight at you.

"What, brother, are you screwed?" His voice was low and hoarse. "You picked the wrong one, you can't even see your own."

You felt something inside you twitch. Shame? Anger? You wanted to snap back, wanted to say something impudent, but the words stuck in your throat. He pushed away from the car and stepped forward.

"You're probably cold," he said more gently, suddenly taking off his uniform jacket and throwing it over your shoulders. The jacket was heavy and smelled of tobacco and men's cologne. "My name is Oleg. I gave Svetka a lift here, and she came back on her own. Now I'm standing here, thinking that fate kept me here for a reason. You see, I was right."

Oleg flicked the ash to the side, took a final, deep drag, and stubbed the cigarette out on the wet asphalt with the toe of his boot. "Let's go, handsome, at least you'll get warm. Tell me how your life got to this point, that you're chasing after a girl when there are such bored men around you."