My husband left for Kristina. A week later he was sleeping on a folding cot on Zarechnaya.
— The apartment is mine. You’re moving out. Sergey was standing in the bedroom doorway. One hand on the doorframe. Not drunk—just certain. Behind him hovered Kristina from his department. About twenty-eight, a short skirt. She was studying the photos of us on the wall, as if deciding what to keep and what to throw … Read more