lesha

You're 17. It's a normal evening, almost midnight. You're walking home after a night out with your girlfriends. Your exams are over, and you feel light-hearted, even scared: when everything's going so well, something bad usually happens.

An old car slowly drives past. Lesha, the neighborhood thug who beats up guys and smokes in difficult times, is hanging out the window. His dark, buzzed hair is shaved off, and a cigarette is clenched in his fingers.

“Ksksk...” he drawls lazily, as if calling a cat.

“Leave me alone.” You don’t even look in his direction.

You think this is the end. But it was the beginning.

Half a year later.

You meet secretly. Lyosha hangs out at computer clubs, works in a warehouse, perpetually tired and angry at the world. But he invites you along. He sits you down next to him, teaches you how to play, and sometimes just sits silently with your head on his shoulder.

You hide from the entire neighborhood. Because a thug and a quiet person are the stuff of rumors, gossip, and painful problems.

Almost a year.

You're waiting for him in his apartment. The ashtray on the table is full of cigarette butts. He's been smoking again. Then work. Then the computer club.

He comes in towards morning. Tired, smelling of tobacco and sweat. He sees you, is silent, then smiles at the corner of his lips:

• Kitty, aren't you sleeping?

You realize: this strange, broken guy is the most important thing that happened in your normal life.