Cheek – Nino Kalandia

April 11, 2026

It was meant to be an ordinary day. He woke early, shaved, had breakfast, got dressed, and left for work.
It was cold, and he would have preferred not to go out at all.
Instead, he told himself, he would sort through papers.
A full cup of coffee by his side was part of the routine.
He might not even drink it, but having it there was enough — it gave him a quiet sense of confidence.
He was meticulous – always well-groomed, put together, clean-shaven, faintly scented.
He liked himself; more than that, he admired what he saw.
There was a mirror in the corridor of his department, and he made a habit of glancing into it.
Each time he passed, he caught his reflection and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
Everyone knew about his fondness for the mirror.
That was why the cleaner polished it first thing each morning.
He never dared to say aloud that he was handsome. He was afraid the colleagues who gathered for cigarette breaks would laugh at him.
But a compliment, if it came, could sustain him for the entire day.
He worked harder then, with a quiet, buoyant satisfaction. His job was to arrest people.
If he caught someone, the day was already a success.
After that, he would look into the mirror with even greater satisfaction.
He was not just handsome – he was, in his own mind, a man of force.
He never dared to say it aloud, but if someone else did, he would soar with quiet elation.
And they often did. Mostly to please him. Those who stood to gain something were especially generous with their praise.
They spoke of his masculinity, his nobility, his professionalism.
He heard it so often from colleagues, from those around him, that, over time, he began to believe it.
That there was no finer man in the city.
No one more intelligent. No one stronger.
His authority extended only as far as the city he lived in.
But he had plans and he knew how to move forward, how to make his way to a larger city, one filled with opportunity.
Before going to sleep, he would imagine himself in a larger city, seated in a larger office, a larger cup of coffee set on his desk and he would glow with quiet pleasure.
When he smiled, a small dimple appeared in his right cheek.
He considered it his greatest charm.
His face was lean, but his cheeks were soft – faintly pink, almost delicate.
He took particular care of them, buying all kinds of creams and gels to keep them in perfect condition.
A man should have cheeks that make a woman want to kiss them, he would say among close friends – and then smile, as if on cue, to display his signature dimple.
He was especially proud of that dimple.
That day, too, before leaving the house, he carefully spread a thin layer of moisturizer over his cheeks.
Absorbed in sorting through the papers, he failed to notice the commotion rising in the city.
He only learned of it from the colleagues gathered in the corridor.
He pulled on a warm jacket in a hurry, cast a quick glance at his profile in the mirror, and ran toward the square.
A crowd had gathered in the square.
Placards rose above their heads. Mostly women, shouting in unison.
Banners, crowded with slogans, were lifted high into the air.
Police, threaded through the crowd, were already working to break them apart.
His arrival did not go unnoticed. The pushing grew more aggressive.Who wouldn’t want a promotion?
He wanted the promotion himself as well.

The images came in flashes – a larger city, a larger office, a larger desk, a larger cup of coffee.
He felt it: one decisive step, and he would be closer to his dream.
He felt it and plunged into the fray.He grabbed people by their jackets, roughly.
Spoke harshly. Shouted. Swore.
A thin sweat broke over him; his moustache damp, the back of his neck slick.
He didn’t remember how he ended up face to face with her.
She had short hair, fine features.
A placard in her hands.
He could almost feel it already – the large office in the large city.
The images flickered: evening, the weight of a long day, his body sinking into the back of a wide chair.
In front of him, the woman was demanding justice.
She stood her ground, ringed by police, lifting the placard above her head.
There was no fear in her face.
Around them, voices rose, bodies pressed and shifted.
The dream was beginning to take shape.
These people were the path – the way forward, the way to what he had wished for every night before sleep.
They had to be caught.
That was his job.
He stepped closer to the woman and cursed at her. He swore at her loudly, making sure she heard.
The answer came as a slap.
It landed on his soft, pink cheek.
That cherished cheek of his, the one he had tended through winter and summer, never without creams and care.
Rage overtook him.
He seized the woman and dragged her.
Shouting. Spitting in her face.
Forcing her, with brutal insistence, into the police van.
They tore the placard from her hands and cuffed her.
No water.
She was rushed straight into a cell.
Flushed with anger, he sat in his office, rubbing his cheek.
That cherished, soft cheek of his, still pink, just as it had been before the slap.
“Has it hardened? Has it grown rough?”
He checked with his hand, his fingers moving carefully over the cheek he had always tended.
“Is the dimple still there?”
He looked into the mirror and tried to smile.
The dimple was still there.
From the next day on, everyone was talking about his cheek.
How it had been hurt. How it had been struck.
How his soft, well-tended cheek had flushed red.
“And how did it hurt?” people would ask.
“It hurt terribly. The pain spread through my whole being. Nothing has ever hurt me like this.”
He told it to everyone, loudly, emotionally and each time, his hand would rise to his cheek,
as if to deepen the tragedy that had befallen him.
“She should rot in prison — that brazen woman. How dare she slap a man,” people said.
“It’s a cheek, not a Russian drum,” others added.
“What was she even doing out on the street? And not only did she strike him – they say she was shouting, disturbing the peace,” voices murmured on the bus.
His photographs passed from phone to phone -how his cheek had been defiled,how it had been hurt, how terribly it had been hurt.
On television, he spoke with visible emotion, saying the pain he had endured was beyond comparison.
He would not wish such suffering on anyone – it was, he said, an unbearable bitterness.
The country was gripped by unrest. Everywhere, people were talking about it.
The public split in two: some took the man’s side, others the woman’s.
Some raged at him, others at her.

It dominated television, the courts, the streets. In courtyards, in homes, online, people argued. They even turned on one another, the man’s supporters against the woman’s.
Days passed in curses and shouting.
The woman sat in her cell.
She felt no regret. Not at all.
Truth and lies, hatred, malice, unrest and anger blurred together, forming a single, shapeless mass that spread across the country.
From hand to hand it passed – a tangled knot of justice and injustice, of hatred and cruelty, of evil and good.
The story of the cheek that had suffered found its way into every home.
Each evening, before sleep, he would look into the mirror, run his hand over his cheek, stretch, and lie down.
He lay there, so he could dream of himself in a large room, seated at a large table.
And he would fall asleep with a faint smile on his lips.
That morning, too, when he woke, the sun had not yet risen.
”Winter mornings come late”, he thought, and got up reluctantly.
He flicked the switch and went into the bathroom. He dipped the brush into the bowl full of shaving foam, swirled it, looked at his reflection in the mirror, and froze in fear.

His right cheek had disappeared.In its place, the chewing teeth on his upper and lower jaw could be seen, arranged symmetrically.

The well-cared-for teeth shone white, further intensifying the cruel, terrifying reality.He rubbed his eyes, splashed water on his face, and rushed to the mirror by the door.
The white teeth flashed again.
Well-tended. White.
Cold sweat broke over him.
Until now, he had believed there was no such thing as an unsolvable problem.
Until now, he had believed he could fix anything.
Now he stood, his arms slack at his sides, staring at his cheek-less face in the mirror, stunned.
“I can’t go outside anymore.”
In despair, he pressed his exposed teeth tightly against each other.
That was the day his cheek was never seen again.

And yet, it was meant to be an ordinary day. At least, that’s how it had seemed.