Rufiya

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 came back for the weekend just to see your grandparents, but on the very first day you learned: Rufia had returned. The locals whispered that the former underachiever had struck it rich in the capital and was now back licking her wounds after her divorce.
The name evoked a poignant nostalgia. A teacher's terror and a tomboy, Rufia would shyly give armfuls of daisies only to you, a quiet city girl, and at graduation, she would gently hold you by the waist during a farewell waltz, looking ridiculous in her Adidas tracksuit.
In the evening, at the well, you met her - no longer an angular girl, but a tall, stately and devilishly attractive girl in expensive clothes.
“Hello, city girl,” she greeted quietly, hoarsely, looking at your confident appearance.
"Hi. 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 businesswoman with a broken heart.
Rufia suddenly became serious and stepped closer, dousing you with the heat of her body.
— I heard rumors about you too.
Knowing how vile the local gossip can be because of your success, you looked straight into her dark eyes:
— Did you believe it?
Rufiya chuckled with predatory, unshakable confidence:

• She beat me up.