The Valerio family, or how to educate

Morning in the Valerio Apartment

The smell of fresh bread and fried coffee lay like a thick blanket over the kitchen. Nicholas stood at the table wearing nothing but sweatpants pulled low on his narrow hips. His hands, covered in a network of old tiny scars and prominent veins, methodically cut a wooden board with a freshly baked loaf. He wasn't looking at his work, his gray eyes vacant and focused somewhere on a point outside the window, where the early autumn sun tried to break through the clouds.

From the far end of the hallway, from behind a door plastered with faded stickers of old rock bands, came a crash that sounded like a stack of books falling, followed immediately by a loud, raspy laugh. The door flew open, spilling nineteen-year-old May into the corridor. She wore one huge, faded-to-gray Metallica t-shirt, which had slipped off one shoulder, revealing tanned skin sprinkled with freckles. Her hair, the color of wet chestnut, stuck out in all directions. With one hand, she tried to pull up black jeans ripped at the knees, while with the other she caught an overstuffed backpack tumbling off the nightstand.

"Oh, fuck, not again!" her voice sounded loud, with an annoyed rasp. She hopped into the jeans, zipped them up with one click, and, without shoes, shuffled barefoot down the hallway's parquet floor. Her eyes, large, almond-shaped, with a predatory green glint inside, found her father in the kitchen. "Dad! Haven't seen the black t-shirt? The one with the hole in the stomach?"

Nicholas, without looking up from buttering the bread, tossed over his shoulder without looking: "In the laundry basket. Smells of smoke and your despair."

"Despair is my signature scent!" May grimaced, ran to the plastic basket against the wall, rummaged in a pile of clothes, pulled out a crumpled black fabric, sniffed it, and immediately pulled it on over the first. "Perfect. Mom, where are you? Tell dad he's wrong!"

Anna appeared in the doorway. She carried a neatly folded stack of freshly ironed men's shirts and dark trousers. She looked like the embodiment of morning calm: ash-blonde hair pulled into a careless low bun. She wore a simple ivory silk robe, cinched at the waist with a belt. The outline of a thin cotton nightgown could be guessed underneath. Nothing on her feet. Barefoot, like her daughter.

"May, darling, don't talk with your mouth full. And put something on your feet, you're leaving footprints all over the floor," she said softly, but a spark of weary endurance flashed in her aquamarine eyes. "And it's not her t-shirt in the basket, Kolya, it's your old one. The one you burned in the bonfire at the dacha."

Nicholas grunted. "So it does smell of smoke."

"Yep, dad's nostalgia for youth," May grabbed the half-eaten corner of bread from the table, took a bite. "You're kinda grumpy today. Arguing with mom again?"

"We don't argue, we have discussions," Anna laid the clothes on the back of a kitchen chair next to Nicholas, her fingers touched his bare shoulder for a second, quick, almost unnoticeable, but with a light, tangible pressure. "Kolya, you promised to pick up the suit from the dry cleaners today. And have a proper breakfast, not just a vague sandwich."

Nicholas looked at her hand, then into her eyes. "Orders received, Commander-in-chief."

At that moment, the bathroom door opened, releasing clouds of steam smelling of vanilla and sandalwood. Velari emerged, wrapped in a large bath towel tucked under her arms. Her blue, still damp hair was pulled into a high ponytail. Her thin, square-framed glasses already sat on the bridge of her nose, the lenses slightly fogged from within.

She walked down the hallway, carefully avoiding the puddle from May, and headed towards her closet. Movements quick, precise. Her voice, quiet and even, sounded clearly in the morning silence. "May, if you're late for the seminar, Green will fail you with pop quizzes again. Protein bar in the bottom pocket of your backpack."

She didn't turn around. May rolled her eyes. "Spying on my backpack now? Cool. I'm not spying on your diary. Yet."

Velari froze for half a second, then continued selecting a blouse. "That's not spying. It's care. And my diary only has recipes."

"Yeah, recipes for 'how to properly tie a guy up'," May snorted, pulling on her sneakers. "Alright, I'm out! Vela, good luck on your date! Don't forget to ask him about the mole on his balls, it's important for compatibility!"

She shouted this while already darting into the hallway, and slammed the front door. The old chandelier in the hall rattled.

Silence fell. Velari sighed, barely audibly. She was already dressed: white blouse, jeans, hair loose. A thin necklace glinted on her neck. She looked composed. Perfectly ordinary.

Nicholas lifted his eyes to her. "What time is your gentleman caller?" he asked, stretching out the last word.

"At one. At the fountain in the park."

"The park," Nicholas repeated, pushing the empty cup away. "Don't forget, family dinner after six. If your gentleman wants to stay for coffee, give a heads up."

"I will."

He looked at her, his gaze growing heavier, appraising. "A month of texting. Are you sure you know who you're meeting?"

Velari adjusted her glasses. Her face was calm, but a quick, sharp spark flashed in her blue eyes behind the lenses. "I'm always sure. Or I pretend to be."

She turned, took her purse, and left, quietly closing the door behind her.

The kitchen fell quiet again. Nicholas sighed. "She'll be fine," he muttered under his breath.

Anna came up behind him, placed her hands on his shoulders. "She's a smart girl, Kolya. Smarter than we were at her age." She leaned in, her lips almost touching his ear. "And she had a good example of what to look for in a man."

Nicholas froze, then laughed a short, dry chuckle. He placed his big, rough palm over her delicate hand and squeezed. "You're insufferable."

"I know."

The Park. 12:55

You were walking towards the bench by the old cast-iron fountain, long out of order. The autumn sun, pale, filtered through the sparse leaves. A chill and the smell of damp earth hung in the air.

A month of texting. At first cautious, general phrases. Then bolder. Jokes that pushed boundaries. Her messages were like puzzles — always with a double meaning, always leaving room for interpretation. Your replies made her respond faster. Her last message, sent an hour ago, hung in your memory: "Don't be late. Or buy water. I'm curious if my first real look will frighten you."

And there she was.

Velari sat on the far bench, back to you, seemingly absorbed in contemplation of the overgrown pond. She wore that same white blouse and jeans, her blue hair cascading in a wave almost to her waist. She seemed unapproachable. Nothing like the person who wrote about imagining your voice.

But as you took a few steps towards her, a sharp gust of autumn wind swept across the pond. It hit her back, tangled her hair, and blew open the hem of her unzipped denim jacket. The flaps flew apart. The wind got under the thin blouse, pressing it to her body and lifting it from behind.

The fabric billowed, exposing for a second the waistband of her jeans, a narrow strip of lower back skin, and the bottom edge of a champagne-colored lace bra. The wind gusted from the front too, making the cotton cling tightly to her chest, outlining in minute detail their full, heavy shape, the clear contours beneath the fabric, and even the crease under her breast where a poorly fastened button barely held. Her nipples remained hidden, inverted, but the sheer volume and weight were revealing.

Velari gasped, sharply and soundlessly, and grabbed at the jacket flaps, desperately pressing them to herself. She squirmed on the bench, trying to hold the fabric with one hand and tuck the blouse back into her jeans with the other. She muttered through clenched teeth, her face flushed a bright crimson. "Shit... shit, shit, not now..."

And only when the wind died down, she, winded, with disheveled hair and glasses slid down to the tip of her nose, finally looked up and saw you. She froze. Her blue eyes behind the lenses widened. The blush on her cheeks deepened. She didn't say 'hi', didn't smile. Her lips, full and always slightly parted, were now tightly pressed together.

Then her gaze fell on your hand, clenched in your pocket, on how you'd frozen. And something in her posture changed. The embarrassment didn't vanish, but over it lay a thin, barely perceptible layer of challenge. She slowly, exaggeratedly carefully, adjusted her glasses, then lowered her hands, stopping the struggle with the jacket. The blouse still stuck out, outlining her breasts.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet, even, but a slight, uncontrolled tremor was audible in it, which she now seemed to ignore.

"...So. Do you always sneak up so quietly to catch girls battling the elements? Or is the wind just a very loud accomplice?" She didn't look away. "I believe I promised you a 'first real look'. Seems you got a bit more than you bargained for."