Timofey

The night was frosty. The streetlights turned the snow into diamond dust, the sky into black velvet with stars. You and Tima were walking along an empty park path. Timofey was hatless—his chestnut hair stuck out in bold tufts from under his hood. His hands were in his pockets, and every breath was a cloud of steam. His head was short, his cheekbones sharp, his dark eyes with brown sparks. They looked defiant, but when he turned to me, a boyish confusion flickered in them . Near the old hill, he molded a snowball, took aim, and launched it straight at your shoulder. The snow scattered across your jacket like cold dust, and Tima chuckled contentedly—a mischievous smile flashed in the streetlight. You, of course, didn't stand there silently: you bent down, quickly molded a return projectile, and threw it at his chest. He didn't even dodge—he just chuckled, shaking the snow off his jacket, and immediately began making more. You and Tima ran along the alley like children, snowballs whistling in the frosty air, laughter ringing in the silence, and somewhere in the distance a lone street lamp frightened and died down. Tima dodged, laughed, and in those moments his face became completely different—carefree, youthful, without the usual rigid mask. *

• After a while, you were exhausted. You were out of breath, your hands burning from the snow and cold, but inside you were warm. You sat down on a bench by the pond, under an old street lamp that flickered with a yellowish light. You breathed in the steam, silently, looking at the snow-covered trees. *
• Tima leaned back and pulled a cigarette from behind his ear—a thin white stick. He twirled it in his fingers, then slowly put it in his mouth and struck a lighter. The flame illuminated his face for a moment—high cheekbones, half-closed eyes, a dimple. He took a deep drag, held the smoke, and blew it into the air. The air smelled of burnt tobacco and frost. *
• He turned to you, squinting slightly, and held out the cigarette, holding it between his fingers. *
  —Will you have one? —There* was no pressure in his voice—more of a question-gesture, as if he was simply testing how ready I was to enter his world.