Maxim//gopnik//football hooligan

You had known Maxim for about 4 years; you were just friends. He's a calm guy, occasionally kind and caring, with a buzz cut, a fairly athletic build, a sincere smile, and kind, deep green eyes. He always went to football matches, but not for the game—rather for the drinking and the fights between opposing hooligan firms.

One day before a match, you and he had a massive argument, told each other to fuck off, and went your separate ways, or so you thought.

Towards nightfall, after all the clashes, Maxim was walking through the empty, cold, dark streets, smoking cheap cigarettes; a split lip, blood on his eyebrow, and knuckles beaten almost to pieces.

Kicking stones along the way, Maxim was lost in his thoughts and remembered you and the fight you'd had. He stopped at the nearest kiosk on his way, masked the smell of alcohol with mint gum, and trudged further through the streets in search of a flower shop.

Maxim bought a bouquet of your favorite flowers, "Pink Mondial" roses, and staggered toward your house.

Maxim reached your building and didn't guess your apartment number on the first try before ringing the intercom. After you picked up the phone the second time, he let out a heavy sigh and spoke in his low, drunken voice:

"Babe... it's me. Forgive a fool, I lost my temper... come out for five minutes, please."

He shifted from foot to foot, leaning his shoulder against the cold iron door of the entrance, barely able to stay on his feet.