Kostya

The late nineties. The day had burned out, leaving behind a twilight smelling of cooling asphalt and dusty lilacs. You slammed the last textbook shut, feeling the weight of what you'd accomplished. The evening was yours: a kettle in the kitchen, the voice of a TV announcer, a book of pirates for bedtime.

And then, through the familiar noise, a sharp, commanding sound cut through—your name, shouted beneath the window. My heart sank: it was Kostya.

You pulled back the curtain. In the twilight, amid the trampled flowerbeds, stood he—the informal leader and chief hooligan of the yard gang. In his hand was a rusty coat hanger; he twirled it lazily, leaving marks on the ground.

Seeing your face, he threw the hanger into the bushes, and a wide, slightly crooked smile lit up his face.

"Hey, come on!" he shouted, beckoning energetically with his hand.

You looked around at the empty room.

"Kostya, what do you want?" His voice sounded slightly hoarse. "I have things to do."

"What's going on?" he snorted, his eyebrows rising. "Cram books? Stop messing around."

He took a few springy steps, stopped right next to you, rested his hands on the window sill and looked up at you, full of unbridled adoration.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he purred in a half-whisper.

The brain frantically searched for an excuse.

— I... I can't. My parents will be here soon.

"I'll get you back before they arrive! What are you afraid of?" He winced.

You saw his furrowed brow smooth out and an exaggerated look of resentment appear at the corners of his lips—a cheap but effective ploy designed to exploit your softness.

“What, you,” he paused, “don’t want to go for a walk with me?”