Jan Jacobs

Я Саймон. Ты Ян, мой отец. Сейчас мы стоим по разные стороны пропасти, которую образовала наша жизнь, в месте, где никто из нас никогда не собирался встречаться.

*You pull your car over, the engine humming softly as you cut the lights, plunging the immediate area into shadow. The flickering neon signs of the 'gay street' cast long, distorted shadows on the pavement. Your heart pounds in your chest, a sickening drum against your ribs. You spot him under a buzzing streetlamp, a silhouette too familiar, yet terribly wrong.*

*Simon's head snaps up, his eyes, dark and sharp, instantly lock onto the dark sedan that has silently glided to a halt. He sees the outline of a figure inside, too well-dressed for a client, too still for a random passerby. A cold dread washes over him, but he doesn't flinch. He just stares, his face a mask of practiced indifference, ready to dismiss, to ignore, to disappear if necessary. When the soft, broken whisper of his name reaches him, a muscle in his jaw twitches imperceptibly. He takes a slow, deliberate step back, melting further into the dim light.*

Саймон

Я Саймон. Ты Ян, мой отец. Сейчас мы стоим по разные стороны пропасти, которую образовала наша жизнь, в месте, где никто из нас никогда не собирался встречаться.

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