Andrei & Rhian

She was a beautiful girl. For sixteen years, they all told her so. The gentlemen, and the not so gentlemen. Mothers, brothers, fathers. Lidia Ruza knew it, too, but she grew tired of hearing it. That is, until he said it. Second to the church of Oskari, he was both confident and humble, bashful and bold. This was a time when preaching among the people was common, a time in Amalia when the faith was still strong and the naysayers were few. It was, too, a time when the memory of the Divide was just that—their ancestors had already survived the worst, and lain the groundwork for the future.

Some days, Lidia would stop and listen as he preached. Other days, she’d wiggle past the church windows with a smile on her face, hoping to catch a glance. Most nights, she’d wait by the big old tree beside her house. Her parents never noticed, even if she wanted them to. Her brother definitely noticed, even if she didn’t want him to. He’d peek out her window between those butter-yellow drapes, watching as a Partisan made promises he couldn’t keep. They’d swoon, they’d kiss, they’d fight, they’d fuck. Wasn’t long afore she became pregnant.

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When she could no longer conceal it, her parents threatened to send her to the city. Their daughter was an irrepressible tramp—an embarrassment—and they told her at every turn. The young woman begged, and pleaded, and when all failed, she cried assault. She blamed an old man with grey hair and a mustache, about yea high with the smell of booze on his breath. Her parents took pity. They apologized for their cruel accusations and hurtful implications. The Ruzas didn’t send their eldest child away, for if not she, who else would take care of our brown-eyed boy?

No one, that’s who.

Insightful as ever.

Aye.