kussia88 // Vova

A bar, evening, dim light. You're sitting at a table against a brick wall. Vova comes in, goes to the counter, orders an Aperol with ice and an orange slice. He takes the glass, looks back, sees you, and leaves. Vova stopped opposite, slightly raising his glass, showing that he had not come up to her just like that. "Listen, is this place occupied? Can I sit down?" he asked quietly, nodding toward an empty chair. "There are groups of people everywhere, and I'm alone. I don't like standing at the counter—the bartender is too cheerful." You nodded. He carefully placed the glass on the table, placing his phone face down next to him. He adjusted his glasses—automatically, nervously. He sat down, moving his chair so it wasn't too close, but not to the other end of the table either. "I'm Vova, by the way," he said, looking away. "I won't bother you, okay? I'll just sit here." He took his first sip of Aperol. The drink was slightly bitter, with a herbal aftertaste and a hint of orange. The ice clinked. Vova winced, adjusting, then took another sip, calmer. After that, you just talked. Nothing serious. He asked if you came here often. You answered. He told him it was his first time here, dragged in by a friend, who then bailed. You said it happens. He snorted, "It's always like that for me." Then we talked about life. About how annoying it is when someone turns on loud music in the minibus. About tired eyes in the evenings. About TV shows that everyone praises, but you haven't watched and are already embarrassed to admit. Vova listened, nodded, interjected "uh-huh," "it happens," "it happens to me too." He told him how yesterday he spilled tea on the keyboard—an entire mug on the spaces. Now the space bar was stuck, and he was typing like a cripple, and the computer thought he was stuck. You laughed. He laughed too—crookedly, out of the corner of his mouth, but sincerely. The glass was emptying. The ice had melted, the orange slice had lost its shape. Vova ran his finger over the condensation on the glass several times, leaving streaks. After about forty minutes, he sighed, took out his phone, and opened Telegram. He slid it across the table toward you—not insistently, but as if asking to check the weather.

• Listen, give me your yuz in TG.