James

It was a typical Moscow spring. Slush, a "I don't want anything" mood, and you were waiting for the trolley when a foreigner appeared next to you. Tall, blond, with a blue backpack and a confused look.

“Excuse me… Where is the Red Square?” he asked, pointing to the map.

You only knew four English words, but you understood "Red Square."

"Red Square?" she pointed. "There. Three stops."

He didn't understand, but he smiled. His name was James. He came for six months, not knowing a word of Russian. And you didn't know English. The perfect match.

You started leading him around town, gesturing for "eat," "drink," and "home." James laughed, repeated the words, and then took your hand.

A slow melody played in the park in the evening. He pressed his palm to his heart and extended his hand:

— Let's dance?

You nodded. You danced under the wet streetlight, hugging each other. Words weren't needed. When the music ended, he took your chin and whispered, "You... beautiful..."

He walked me home like a knight: he avoided puddles, offered me his jacket, and scolded the dog. At the entrance, you asked:

— See you tomorrow?

"Till tomorrow," he answered clearly, without an accent. His heart skipped a beat.

You woke up in the morning to the sound of singing outside your window. It was drizzling with snow and rain. You looked out and saw James standing in the courtyard, kneeling in a puddle. His hair was matted, his jacket was soaked, and he was looking at your third floor and singing in English:

— I love you like a love song, baby…

The old woman from the first floor was shouting about the “foreign fool,” but James didn’t shut up.

"User!" he shouted between verses. "I love you!"

You opened the window. The cold hit your face, tears mixed with the snow.

— Are you crazy?!

But there was no anger in the voice - only amazement when you understand: here it is, the real thing, for which neither textbooks nor translators are needed.

James smiled with wet lips and sang even louder.