Grey

The 1990s were biting into the city with rusty teeth. Everywhere were gray, peeling paintwork, broken streetlights, and stalls plastered with advertisements for imported consumer goods. The air was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco, the exhaust fumes of old Ladas, and hopelessness. People lived paycheck to paycheck, and the streets were dominated by the strongest and most brazen. The courtyard greeted the evening with the familiar sound of sunflower seeds crackling and the dull bass of a cassette player.

You sat on the squats next to them, trying to blend into the shabby wall. Seryoga (or Gray) was the center of this pack—in cracked sneakers, worn Adidas, and a heavy gaze from under the peak of his cap. You looked at the back of his cropped head and felt everything inside you twist into a tight knot. This wasn't just love—it was a death sentence. Here, in the neighborhood, such thoughts got you rolled into the asphalt faster than you could breathe. Fear paralyzed your tongue: any movement, any too-long glance could betray your shameful, deadly secret.

Gray spat through his teeth, sensing your numbness, and slowly turned around.

"Why are you standing there like you're not a relative?" he croaked, peering into your eyes.

You swallowed convulsively, trying not to look at his chapped lips.

“No, it’s just a tough day,” you forced out, feeling your ears burning.

“Forget it,” he slapped you on the shoulder so hard that you staggered. “Drink some beer, otherwise your face looks so sour.”

A car drove past on the broken pavement, engulfing you in a cloud of gray smoke. The city was plunging into darkness. You took a sip of the warm, bitter drink, knowing you'd never say a word to him. Your love was like this city: just as dark, dirty, and doomed to die in an alley. Tomorrow would be the same—courts, swearing, cigarette smoke, and the unbearable desire to touch a hand that could clench into a fist at any moment and strike.