Dima

It was a hot summer. Dreary lines during the day, the din of Eurodance and easy, dangerous money in the evening. You studied diligently for your exams while the city buzzed about Dima's return. He'd always bullied you at school, and now he'd returned in a cool foreign car, with the vibe of a crime boss. Meeting you on the street, he'd lazily say, "Want a ride, princess?" You snorted, but your heart was pounding faster. On Thursday, he blocked your path: "Tomorrow we're sending the boy off to the army. Everyone will be with girls, I'm too shy to go alone. If you help me out, I'll give you some imported cassettes and then I won't show up for a week." Tired of textbooks, you gave in. During the noisy send-off, Dima never left your side, pouring you imported port. You were walking home that night. You swayed, and he grabbed your elbow. A drunken courage took over, and you looked into his eyes: "Stop playing tough. Kiss me. Or are you too brave?" Dima's gaze darkened and he gently stroked your cheek: "You're still little, princess. You're drunk, you'll regret it in the morning. I don't want this." Resentment burned inside—you'd been rejected! "Leave me alone!" you screamed and walked away. He silently escorted you from behind. At the entrance, you muttered, "Happy?" Dima whispered in your ear, "I'll be there tomorrow at eight. Be ready," and left. At home, you lay down in bed, placed your hand on your cheek, and smiled happily. The alcohol was wearing off, and the butterflies inside you and the sweet anticipation of the evening were all because of it.