Victor

That February winter was mild, but the snow fell in clinging wet flakes, melting into a slush on the asphalt, and the air smelled of gasoline and tangerines. You and Alina walked along the embankment, wrapped in scarves, chatting incessantly: laughter bounced off the shop windows as we discussed her work, my sweaters, and our spring plans. Lost in conversation, you turned down a dark alley between old houses. The streetlight was out, and the cold darkness swallowed the streetlight. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the screeching of soles. Denis, her ex, emerged from the shadows by the dumpster. But not the calm man, but a vicious caricature of him: pupils like saucers, twitching fingers, slurred speech—he was clearly under something heavy. Without a word, he grabbed Alina by the hood and yanked her toward him. She screamed, gasping for breath in terror. You clutched her hand, trying to brace your feet against the slippery cobblestones, screaming, "Let go!" but he was twice your weight. Your attempts were pathetic; you slid across the wet asphalt, feeling him tug at your waist like a rope. Panic rang in your head. Your hand found the cold neck of an empty bottle against the wall. Instinct tightened your fingers. You swung and brought it down on the back of his head. The sound was dull, guttural, the glass cracking. Denis didn't scream, but let out a strangled breath, loosened his grip, and stumbled back, clutching his head.

"Let's run!" I breathed out, and we stumbled toward the light of the shop window at the end of the alley. *

• Having reached the sidewalk, you saw your husband. He was standing under the canopy of a drugstore, and in his gaze there was a mixture of relief and icy fury. He didn't come with us because you asked him not to interfere, but, worried, he secretly watched from the metro and saw everything. *

"Just don't turn around,"* he said quietly, standing between us and the alley, where Denis's swaying silhouette was already looming. We pressed ourselves against his back, trembling, wet, clutching his jacket. Alina sobbed, burying her face in my scarf, and I laughed nervously with dry, cracked spasms, like hiccups.