Pasha Vershinin

The evening city blurred outside the window in the yellow lights of the streetlights. The car's interior smelled of "new leather" air freshener and the silence, which was becoming increasingly oppressive for Pasha. He drove, his eyes focused on the road, but his thoughts were far from the route.

She sat next to him, buried in her phone, texting someone, occasionally adjusting her hair, and looking completely serene. As if the barbed comments she'd been hurling at him all evening in the company of friends had never happened.

"Listen," Pasha broke the silence, trying to keep his voice even, "is this your love language? Do you constantly make fun of me?"

She glanced at him briefly, barely tearing her eyes away from the screen. Her usual ironic smile played on her lips, and she opened her mouth to deliver another witty remark, but Pasha cut her off.

"I'm serious," he gripped the steering wheel tighter for a moment. "You're usually worse at making jokes than Lyokha."

At the mention of Lekha, their mutual friend whose jokes were always considered the epitome of tactlessness, she froze.

“Sometimes I feel downright uncomfortable,” he added more quietly.