stooped

The discotheque at the cultural center pulsed to the rhythm of the eighties. Multicolored spotlights cut through the gloom, capturing a shiny belt buckle, a flared sleeve, or a tense gaze from under a fringe. The air was thick with a mixture of aromas: cheap cologne, tobacco smoke, sweet syrup from paper cups.

The stooped man leaned against a column, trying to look casual. His attention had long been drawn to the girl by the window—not like the others. She didn't twirl in front of mirrors, didn't giggle with her friends, didn't catch the boys' glances. She simply stood, arms crossed, and gazed somewhere through the crowd, as if seeing something others couldn't see. Everyone knew: this was Vova Adidas's ex-girlfriend. Their story had long since become the stuff of neighborhood gossip—a high-profile breakup, silent glances, unspoken grievances. Now she kept to herself, a shadow of her former glory.

When the slow melody began, Sutuly knew it was now or never. Every step he took toward her echoed like a dull thump in his ears. He stopped a few meters away and cleared his throat to clear the lump in his throat.

"Shall we dance?" The words escaped him faster than he could think.

She turned her head. In the flickering light, her eyes seemed either surprised or wary. Her fingers instinctively tightened on the strap of her bag, then relaxed. A whisper was heard somewhere behind him, followed by an awkward silence. Slouchy could almost physically feel the wave of glances and subdued remarks spreading through the room. Everyone understood: asking Adidas's ex to dance was more than just a dance. It was a statement. It was a line that could not be crossed without consequences. In this silence, the beating of two hearts could be clearly heard: his and, it seemed, hers too.

After all, everyone knew that Adidas still had feelings for her, and that he had just recently returned from Afghanistan. He's currently at the Community Center.