Memory

Memory. Well, where can I escape from you? Nowhere.

You left school after the 8th grade. Like all our boys—some went to vocational school, some to technical college, like you. Twenty-five girls remained—a "women's monastery." We had an interesting and fun life. My classmates fell in love, suffered, discussed their own and others' "exes" and current ones. And I was surprised: "Sasha? From the parallel class? And both of you are in love with him? But he's so ordinary! Nothing special..."

Our mutual friend brought you to visit me:

— Zhenka and I were out walking and decided to drop by.

With Zhenka? I didn't recognize you. Tall, broad-shouldered. Wow, you'd shot up in two years. And unexpectedly

attentive gray eyes.

The next day you came alone. You were in your third year of technical college, I was in my first year of university. Late September. Multicolored leaves rustled underfoot on the park paths. And your lips were so hot, dry, and firm. It turned out kissing was so sweet.

You were the absolute best—wonderful, extraordinary. I admired you and was a little envious—I wish I had eyelashes like yours, long and thick.

Our parents worked at the same factory, they were never home before six, our younger brothers were athletes and disappeared after school—mine went to wrestling, yours to the pool. Both apartments were at our disposal for several hours a day. How could we not take advantage of that?

When I first saw you without clothes, I was surprised I wasn't embarrassed. I was curious. You looked even more beautiful that way. I liked touching you, feeling with my fingers how your muscles tensed from light touches, hearing your breathing quicken. You let me look at you, didn't rush, carefully undressed me. Your hands slowly stroked my collarbones, my neck. You squeezed my breasts. A little painful, but pleasant. You leaned down, licked a nipple with your tongue, took it into your mouth. I held onto your shoulders and looked down at your face from above. You liked it. You pulled away from my breast and kissed me again. On the lips. Demandingly, parting them with your tongue. You pressed on my shoulders, laying me on my back. You sat beside me and looked. I felt like I could feel your gaze on my skin. You touched my stomach, slid your fingers lower.

— Spread them.

Your hand touched the inside of my thigh. You stroked my leg, each time moving a little higher. I tensed up.

— Don't be afraid. I'll be careful.

You really were very careful. I let you touch me, each of your movements, first outside and then inside, stirred a whole storm of emotions. I simultaneously wanted to push you away and to continue.

Your penis scared me at first. I had felt it before, through clothes, when we hugged and kissed. Now it seemed too... big? Dark from the rush of blood, it stood upright, swaying with your movements. You noticed my interest:

— Touch it.

I didn't dare. You took my hand and placed it on your organ, closing my fingers around it. It felt unexpectedly pleasant. I squeezed my palm a little and realized you liked it. You guided my movements, and I saw the foreskin slide back, exposing the head. It had a groove in the middle and noticeably protruded from the shaft.

Your fingers moved inside me much more decisively. You stroked something, making me squirm a little, spreading my legs even wider, offering you that sensitive spot.

— Good?

— Yes!

— It'll get better.

It really did get better. I could already feel the wetness myself, over which your fingers slid quickly. Your penis was also wet, thick drops slowly trickled down the head. You groaned and removed my hand, which was moving in rhythm with your movements inside me. You lay on top of me. My legs were bent at the knees—that made it easier for you to caress me. Your organ pushed against me below.

— It will hurt.

I nodded. Of course, I had heard and read about that.

Well, yes, it hurt. A little. Once inside, you started moving. And you didn't last long. After a couple of minutes, you pulled out completely, and a translucent, light fluid spilled onto my stomach. I touched it, licked the smudged tip of my finger. Tasteless.

You knelt between my legs and watched me tensely.

— What?

— How are you? Does it hurt?

I smiled. You were so cute—disheveled, flushed, covered in little beads of sweat.

— Everything's fine. A little sore. Need to take a bath.

You got out of bed. I followed. You hugged me, pressed me to you, kissed my lips hard:

— Thank you. You're not angry?

— What? Of course not! We're together...

We didn't try to hide our meetings. Why would we? People saw us as a couple. And my mom even hinted about marriage a few times. But there was still the army ahead.

You never again allowed yourself to be with me without a "rubber." I wouldn't say it bothered me, but I didn't particularly like it either. Still, we knew where babies came from and weren't in a hurry to have them. In vain.

Our peers "got" Afghanistan. I think it was the first time in my life I sincerely prayed you wouldn't end up there. And I was ready to strangle you with rage when I found out you yourself (yourself!!!) wrote a request to serve there.

Two months later, we had a wedding. Merry and tipsy. You kissed me, carefully supporting my back, and I was proud that you were now my husband. My husband, my man.

And then I learned what heroin was. And I understood why you suddenly started wearing wristbands. It's convenient to hide needle marks under them.

Of course, I understood that people don't come back from war as ordinary people. You said you hadn't killed anyone. But you saw others being killed. Your fuel truck really did burn. Like in my dream. And your dead partner burned in it. I learned about this when, in a drug-induced delirium, incoherently, repeating yourself and jumping from one thing to another, you told me about your life "over there." Just that one time. It was enough for me.

Your interest in me didn't even last half a year. You stopped kissing me, stopped caressing me. You didn't want me anymore. Only the drug remained. There was no money for anything. I could only work on my thesis at my parents' place or in the library. Your mother simply turned black with grief, your father was in intensive care twice in three months.

You didn't notice anything. You weren't living. You only existed in search of money for a fix. You sold everything that could be sold.

You were lying on the sofa, your head thrown back strangely. I froze. Thin, unshaven for several days. Pale to the point of blueness. A stranger.

— Zhenka! Zhenka, what's wrong?! Wake up!!! — I shook you by the shoulders, and your head rolled limply on the pillow. A plastic syringe crunched under my foot.

The ambulance arrived in fifteen minutes. A young doctor stopped over you, checked your pulse, examined the punctured crook of your arm with a fresh needle mark. I knelt beside you, stroked your hair, and looked at him.

— Apparently, an overdose.

You never regained consciousness, died in the hospital an hour later. They let me into the room. You were lying on a gurney, covered head to toe. The nurse pulled back the sheet. I looked at your face, so foreign and so dear. Eyelashes, long and thick, cast shadows on your cheeks. Mine. And no longer mine.

— Why, Zhenechka? Why?

There's no escaping memory. It's always with me.

My son's name is Zhenka. He has a different father. And he will have a different life. A life you never got to live. God forbid he ever learns what war is. God forbid he ever breaks.