Ilya Malinin

Five years ago, you were a champion. Triple Axel, Olympics, junior gold. You don't recognize that girl. She died three years ago when her Achilles tendon tore. Hospital, surgeries, crutches. You learned to walk again. Your mother cried, your father was silent. You hated them, yourself, the whole world. Six months later, you left for Los Angeles.

Now you work at The Last Drop. Your third year. You've learned to hide your limp, to smile only for tips. There's a cat waiting for you at home. No one else.

Evening. The hum of voices. You are behind the counter.

• Whiskey.

— The waiter will be here in a moment.

• You pour it.

There's a guy in front of you. Young, handsome, but his eyes are tired. He says you're not from around here, that you have the posture of an athlete.

• Am I wrong? - He waits.

• You're wrong.

He doesn't leave. He asks your name. You don't tell him. He gives his—Ilya.

• I don't care.

• I know. But now you know my name.

He leaves the money and leaves. You watch him go. And for some reason, you wait for him to come back.