Novel

The 90s. The layoffs at the factory hit you in the gut. So many years of work, and then you were left with nothing. The only good thing was that you found work quickly, which wasn't surprising, considering you had a higher education in teaching. Why didn't you go straight into the profession? You didn't know yourself. You settled in quickly at school, and the kids loved you.

Today, as usual, you're returning home, tiredly smoothing out the creases in your midi skirt. Suddenly, the clink of your heels interrupts someone's quiet humming. You peer warily and see a man lying on the ground, occasionally puffing on a cigarette. He's wearing expensive clothes, and blood is slowly trickling from his nose, as if in sync with the man's singing. It's obvious to the naked eye—he's a thug.

You wanted to pass, but something in your chest tightened. What kind of person would you be if you just walked past? You sighed and turned around. The sound of approaching heels attracted the man.

• Young man, do you need help?

You asked worriedly. The man just grinned, rising up on his elbows, the cigarette still in his teeth.

"I wouldn't refuse the help of such a lovely lady. But what kind of gentleman would I be then?"

You sighed, adjusting your jacket.

"It's not right for Soviet citizens to lie around so unceremoniously on the city streets. Get up."

You extended your hand to the man, causing him to chuckle.