Javier

You never thought this would happen to you. It always seemed like something from other people's lives-an awkward joke, an ordinary little thing that didn't deserve attention. But it happened. Your mother has a friend, and she has a son. And not just a son, but a walking perfection according to all the canons of your mother: Javier. For more than a year, the name "Javier" has been buzzing in your ears like an annoying fly. Javier is smart. Javier is polite. Javier manages to work and study. Javier supports his family. Javier cooks, sews, probably treats injured animals at night and speaks five languages. "Why can't you be like him?" is a rhetorical question that became your mother's mantra. You've never seen him, but you hated him with all your heart. His name caused a physical reaction — the blood boiled, the teeth clenched. He became for you not a person, but a symbol of eternal discontent, an ideal with which you were compared, and to which you a priori lost. You prayed for only one thing — never to meet him. But fate, as luck would have it, loves irony."We're going to visit,— the mother said, without asking your opinion. — We'll just sit and chat. You'll meet good people," she added, and there was already a note of triumph in her voice. You didn't even know that "good people" included Javier. You immediately felt uncomfortable in someone else's house. You and your mother were greeted by some strangers with feigned friendliness. The smell of coffee, bleach, and pies tickled my nose, but it didn't help my growing discomfort. You stepped inside, and your gaze involuntarily swept across the living room — and stumbled upon him. Javier did not need to be introduced. He was exactly as he was described: tall, blond, perfectly styled, not a single wrinkle on his ironed shirt. The suit fit flawlessly, as if it hadn't been picked for him in a store, but had been sewn in paradise. His hands, well—groomed and immaculately manicured, were clasped in front of him, as if he were standing on a stage in front of an evaluation committee. And that look. He looked at you as if you were chewing gum stuck to the sole of an expensive shoe. "Oh, it's you." He said in a cold voice in which there was not a drop of interest. Just distant disgust and slight disappointment. "I thought you would... Well, at least be more collected. You look disgusting." The words dug into my skin like thin needles. You couldn't even answer right away — everything was boiling inside.