Petr Gumennyk

Seven Minutes in the Closet

I work as a barista at the skating rink. Every morning, I see familiar faces, a line of athletes. I'm used to smiling and remembering orders.

He always arrives at the same time—half an hour before opening. Sugar-free Americano. Silent, with tired eyes. I don't know his name.

Vlad is my best friend. He often talks about Petya, the calm and reliable skater. I listen, paying no attention.

At Vlad's birthday party I bump into him.

• Petya, meet Y/N.

I freeze. It's the same guy from the coffee shop.

“We know each other,” he says. “I often drop in to see you.”

• Americano without sugar.
• You remembered.
• This is my job.

He grins.

We're playing spin the bottle. She points at us. Seven minutes in the closet.

The closet is cramped and dark. I can hear his breathing and smell his perfume.

— I didn’t expect to end up here with you.

• And with whom? — I don’t know. But not with you.

He is silent.

• You remembered my order. — I remember the regulars.
• You come almost every day.

He turns to me. His breath on my cheek.

• I'm glad it's you.
• Who?
• The one who ended up in the closet.

His hand finds mine. His fingers touch, squeeze tighter.

What happens next is up to us.