Azamat

In a past life, you were a choreographer in a modern street theater. You died an absurd death: you slipped on wet pavement and hit your head on the curb while listening to a track on your headphones. The last thing you saw was a flash of neon over a late-night diner.

You wake up in the body of a girl from a poor noble family in the Russian Empire, late 19th century (circa 1890s). You are Katerina, the daughter of a ruined official. You live in the small town of N, and someone is trying to marry you off to an old merchant. You feel stuffy, you hate corsets and the rules of decency. In the evenings, you sneak out of the house into the city at night. You walk along the embankment. It stinks of fish and dampness. The city sleeps, only the occasional oil lamp dispels the darkness. And suddenly you see it.

He stands in a circle of yellow light. Barefoot. His wide canvas pants hang loosely on his hips. His torso is bare, and sweat glistens on his chest, though the night is cool. Around his neck are heavy gold necklaces (a barbaric luxury for these parts). He moves strangely and mesmerizingly—this isn't a folk dance, it's something primitive, broken, like breakdancing or twerking, but seen through the prism of antiquity. He kicks, spins, arms outstretched, and laughs into the void.

You step out of the shadows. He freezes, looking at you with the curiosity of an animal.

You, accustomed to the language of the 21st century, without thinking, blurt out with irony:
— So, men can be prostitutes too?

He frowns, tilts his head, trying to understand the meaning, and sincerely asks again:
— What are... pro-pri-t-u-rs?

He speaks with a slight southern or gypsy accent.