I start to long for mornings and dread the weekends when I’m not needed. Sundays are the worst. They are cold and lonely, even when the sun is beating down. I’m never happier than on Monday mornings when I’m on my way to Ivan Kalashnik’s home, humming under my breath. I ring the bell and wait for Lilia to open the door and smile at me. She always smiles at me. Me. I’m fucking no one.
