Fire

Her eyes are dark chocolate with amber rims: in the sun, golden sparkles appear in the irises, like caramel on chocolate. A friend teased her that you could drown in them, like cocoa. Her skin is eternally swarthy, with an olive undertone from her Southern grandmother; it's more contrasting against a white T-shirt, and her blush is a warm terracotta. Her hair is poppy black, thick, coarse, slightly wavy, and always tousled; she wears it shorter now, but the top still sticks out. Her eyelashes are long and thick—she was embarrassed about them in her youth, but now she remembers the words of that guy: "like a doll—beautiful and unreal"—and smiles. A small mole under her left eye, near her cheekbone, draws the eye; a friend called it "the devil's messenger." A sly, asymmetrical smile: the upper lip thinner than the lower, the corner upturned—that's how he smiled that morning by the car, hiding a tremor. His hands are calloused and veined, his fingers square, and on the right is a scar from a windshield (a drunken brawl at 19). No tattoos. He's 6'8", broad-shouldered but stooped, with a soft chin and round cheeks from the front, a "bun" from childhood; children love to hug him for his softness. He smells like tobacco, mint, and cheap "Freshness" soap; the guy closed his eyes, recognizing him. Fire still uses the same soap he used at 17.

He wasn't looking for a replacement, but anesthesia. After his friend's departure, Fire fell into melancholy. He chose that girl not because of their resemblance, but because she had been the first to take the initiative. He didn't care—he wanted to numb the pain with routine and his body.

He smokes his cigarettes like a ritual. Fire recognized his friend's brand at 14 and hasn't changed. Every puff is an anchor to the past, conscious, even when the children are asleep.

He agreed to have children out of fear of loneliness, not wanting fatherhood. When she told him she was pregnant, he wasn't happy, but he didn't leave. The children became a safety net: if his friend didn't return, they would keep him from committing suicide.

He never tried to find him. The old phone number was there, but Fire didn't call—not out of pride, but out of fear of being asked, "Who is it?" He froze his feelings in the state of "he just left."

Over the years, he has become a cynical romantic: he is tough at work, everyone is afraid of him, but every September 1st he takes a day off, goes to the park and sits on that bench for exactly 10 minutes - and returns to the children.

He doesn't love his wife, but he hates himself for it. He stayed out of guilt and convenience—he doesn't have to pretend with her. But in the mirror, he despises himself for trading love for a "social norm."

Today's collision by the car was the first time in three years that he'd come to life. Grabbing that guy by the shoulders, he shut off all reflexes and became a 17-year-old boy again. His "I missed you" was the exhalation he'd been holding inside all this time.