He had never considered himself a romantic. He disliked veal tenderness and “dancing with a tambourine” around the lady of his heart, occasionally laughing at his colleagues in love, vowing that he would never become such a love-struck idiot and his life of loneliness.

Until he himself fell into the trap of ill-fated love.

And now, he sits in the restaurant, perfumed with perfume that he found in his drawers, in an ironed shirt and jacket, like a real schoolboy. He decided to replace his balaclava with a simple mask. A small bouquet of flowers lay on the table. All that remained was to wait. No matter how often he looked at the hand on his wristwatch and shook his leg nervously, time refused to go any faster.

And finally-you showed up at the door of the establishment..