My friend Miriam and I had to go to Ukraine, to a small city near the border. Those who have read my other stories know all the backstory. The plan was to hire a car that would take us there in the morning and bring us back in the afternoon.

We were not really worried about the war. The city we were traveling to was far from the front. It took us about four hours to get there. Miriam was deep in her thoughts, and I did not want to interfere. We left at 7 am and got there by 11 am. She had an appointment at noon, so we went to a cafe for a quick coffee, and then she went to the hospital.

We agreed that she would call me afterwards. The procedure, we were told, should not take more than several hours. I went for a walk. The city had nice churches and a town hall. I saw many old people. I saw some young men and some children, but not a single woman younger than 50 and older than 20.

Then I realized I was hungry. I found a small restaurant and walked in. The restaurant had just a few tables and a bar. I took a seat at a table, and a lady in her late 50s came to take my order. They did not have a paper menu. She just recited the options to me. I recognized some familiar names and ordered borshch.

While waiting for the meal, a man in his mid-30s, in a brown jacket, entered the restaurant and took a seat at another table. He smiled at me and nodded, as if saying "hi." I nodded back. The man was tall and had a thick, black beard. He looked a bit tired and had a limp in his right leg. One of his hands was in a glove.

After he took his seat, he did something terrible: he took out a cigarette and lit it. I must tell you - I hate cigarette smoke. I asked him to stop smoking, in English and in Polish. After I repeated my request several times, with gestures, he understood, put out the cigarette, and said, "I'm sorry."

But then the lady who had taken my order came back and started berating me angrily in Ukrainian. I was confused. She was not angry at him for smoking but at me for telling him off. Why? He tried to calm her down. He started talking to her, occasionally glancing at me in a friendly way, as if apologizing for her. I half-recognized the words "fine," "foreigner," and "she."

"It's fine, she's a foreigner"—is that what he was saying?

From what the lady was telling me, I recognized only one word—"wojna." The war. She was using a word that was close to a Polish insult against gay men. This was even more puzzling.

Then I realized that what I had mistaken for a glove on his right hand was not a glove. The man had a prosthetic arm. And then it dawned on me. I understood the situation perfectly well. The guy was a war veteran. He lost his arm and maybe a leg (I remembered the limp). Yes, smoking was not allowed, but the lady used to make an exception for him. He was a regular, and smoking helped him cope. And then I came along—an entitled foreigner. This guy, literally, gave an arm and leg for his country, and I did not allow him to have his cigarette in peace. I blushed. I wished to sink into the ground.

"I'm sorry," I said.

The guy translated this to the lady. He knew at least some English. The lady smiled, said something friendly, and walked away. The guy invited me to join him at his table, and we started chatting.

I asked him, hesitantly, where he was injured. He responded. It was a mine in Eastern Ukraine, in 2022. He spoke slowly, pausing to form words, often missing them completely. I helped him. We were smiling, laughing. We learned each other's names. He was Viktor. I told him I came from Poland. He said his sister fled to Poland after the invasion. He showed me her photos.

Then the lady brought borshch to me and a meal to him which I did not recognize. It looked like a corn cereal topped with pieces of pork and cheese.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Banush," he responded. "Tasty."

He then took my spoon with his healthy hand, scooped up a bit of his dish, and extended his hand to me. I took the spoon in my mouth, as if I were a baby he was feeding. I did not like the dish, but I did not want to show that.

"Delicious," I exclaimed.

He frowned.

"Your face say no. You liar," he said playfully.

We finished our meals, and he invited me for a walk. I wanted to pay for the meal, but the lady did not accept payment from me.

"It's a gift," Viktor said. "Our borshch."

She had been so angry at me. Now she was giving me a free borshch meal. What a strange country!

I thanked her, and we went for a walk. We continued chatting. Several times he had to hold me when I was about to trip on ice. His touch sent a rush of heat through my body.

"My flat  here," he said. "You come?"

I nodded, and we walked up to his flat. When we stepped in, I felt a wave of warmth. The flat was small but cosy. I liked the wallpaper with flowers, the carpeted floors, and the photographs on the walls.

We sat down on the sofa He leaned towards me and started kissing me. I kissed him back. He lifted my shirt and started rubbing his prosthetic hand on my boobs. It felt cold, but strangely it turned me on even more. I was wearing a bra, so he undid the clasp with his healthy hand and let the bra fall to the floor.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

He bent over and started licking and sucking my nipples. Then he moved his mouth to my neck and my earlobes. The contrast between the touch of his cold prosthetic hand and his warm healthy hand was thrilling.

He led me to his bedroom and removed my panties.

"I want you," he said. He undressed. I saw a prosthetic leg attached right above his knee. He wanted to climb the bed to get on me, but it seemed difficult for him.

"Relax," I said.

I sat him on the bed and then gently pushed him to lay on his back.

I took his erect member in my hand and started stroking it slowly. His breathing became faster. Then I licked the head of his penis.

Then I slowly lowered myself onto his hard shaft and started moving my hips. I liked how his cock was filling me up. His prosthetic hand gripped my waist, guiding my movements. His other hand was fondling my breasts.

"Do you like it," I asked.

"Yes! no stop!" he responded.

He grunted as I increased the pace. He gripped my hips with his hands, one hot, another one cold. I was moaning while riding him.

Then his entire body tightened, and his eyes shut. He shot his hot load inside me. Then he relaxed, and his muscles unclenched.

I leaned down and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly. We stayed like that for a while.

Then my phone vibrated. It was a text from Miriam. "It's over. Where are you?"

I enjoyed spending time with Victor, and I wanted to stay with him a bit longer. But I knew that Miriam needed me.

"It's my friend," I said, "I've got to go."

He nodded. I took a quick shower. We dressed up, exchanged numbers. I kissed him and left.

It took Miriam and me the same four hours to get back. We did not speak, but I held her tight in hug, and I saw it in her eyes that she was grateful for that.