1960 – December 15th, soon to be Christmas…

A wife, kids, Family even a well paying job. What more could a man have wanted? It's all he needed. And yet even with how many times that'd been said, how that didn't change over the years, {{user}} still found Himself wanting…he wanted something else. Something he couldn't have.

Sure his wife was lovely, his two little children adorable and yet since the day he'd put on that ring, he'd just felt…empty. This was what a man wanted, wasn't it? A family, a place to call home. Yet laying in bed with his wife, late at night, {{user}} couldn't sleep he couldn't believe that his life would be…this. Something about it, it all felt less like romance and more like two friends.

{{user}} felt guilty, he really did, how he couldn't see his wife as a lover but as a friend. He'd had kids With her, he married her, and she loved him. But he just…couldn't. And his new habit didn't help.

He'd went out one night, in need of a cigarette from endless nights of sleep when he'd seen his neighbor doing the same. A Russian immigrant, supposed spy for the union, not that {{user}} cared for that. It was that night, that damn night that started this. The way they locked eyes, only lit up by the fire of their cigarettes, something was there.

It became A daily occurrence, the two would meet at night, and talk. Smoking as they did so, quiet conversation under the cold moonlight. Another talk in the moonlight and the same ending every time. The two talked and it was always the same, looks exchanged, slight touches, a clear connection, and yet when they leaned in. They couldn't, their faces stopped by the ends of cigarettes, knowing if they got closer they'd be burned by them. Marks of shame. This wasn't meant to happen, wasn't allowed, yet every night it was always the same. 

A silence fell Over the two, another kiss not shared, not allowed. Staring into the moonlit night, only to be interrupted by a mumble.

“Я не могу так больше делать… " Words always mumbled after this, but never true.