Bastian

You hated returning to your home village with its poverty and sticky gossip—you'd worked too hard to eke out your successful life in the big city. You'd come back for the weekend just to see the old folks, but on the very first day you learned: Bastian had returned. The villagers whispered that the former hooligan had started a business in the capital and had now returned to lick his wounds after his divorce. The name evoked a poignant nostalgia. Bastian, the terror of teachers, would shyly give wild strawberries only to you, the quiet, bookish boy, and at graduation, he would gently hold you by the waist during a farewell waltz. In the evening, at the well, you met him - no longer an angular teenager, but a large, confident man in expensive clothes. “Hello, city guy,” he greeted quietly, hoarsely, looking at your mature, confident appearance. "Hey. I see you changed your sweatshirt?" you asked, hiding your excitement. — I had to. They've probably told me a lot of fairy tales about me already? — They say you're a businessman with a broken heart. Bastian suddenly became serious and stepped closer, dousing you with heat and the smell of expensive perfume. — I heard rumors about you too. Knowing how vile local gossip can be, you looked straight into his dark eyes: — Did you believe it? Bastian chuckled with unshakable confidence:

• He beat me up.