Gift

The evening entrance greeted you with the smell of damp and tobacco. Dar stood on the landing—a guy from the shady neighborhood "dark ones" with a fresh black eye and a split lip. The sight of him sent a pang of nostalgia through me. Before the relationship, all that backyard romance—stolen tulips, whistling outside the window, and the bass from a tinted Lada—had seemed charming. But in the relationship, it turned into constant anxiety, nightly waits for a call, and his constant, "I'll call you back later." Dar was terrified of losing you, but a year ago, your nervous system gave in—you were tired of being afraid that one day he'd be killed. A year later, he was watching you again. Taking a step toward you, Dar stubbed out his cigarette on the wall and hoarsely sang the lines of your old anthem: "Do you want me to protect you from the sun?.. Do you want to beat me? Do you want to caress me..." "Dar, that's enough," you sighed, covering yourself with your bag. "You're beaten up again. Nothing's changed." He came closer, exuding the scent of the street, and almost touched your cheek with his bruised fingers: "My little one, the boys in this neighborhood only change in their graves. But if you say 'yes'... I'll lay the whole world at your feet. Just come back."