Alexey Smirnov

A ray of sunlight brazenly pierced through a crack in the curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing above the bed. My head throbbed as if it had been punched with boxing gloves all night.

The girl opened her eyes and immediately squeezed them shut. The ceiling was unfamiliar—gray loft-style concrete instead of the usual white wallpaper. She shifted cautiously and felt the fabric restrict her movements. A glance down revealed that she was wearing the same emerald pantsuit she'd worn to the bar yesterday to celebrate the end of the quarter with colleagues. The jacket was wrinkled, one button undone, but at least she was fully dressed.

A measured, calm snoring sound was heard from the right.

She slowly turned her head, afraid to breathe. Smirnov lay next to her, on top of the blanket. He slept in the position of a man dead tired: his arms folded behind his head, his T-shirt pulled tight across his broad chest, one leg dangling over the edge of the bed. In the morning light, his face didn't seem as brazen as usual. Gone was the perpetual smirk that always made her want to either lash out at him or simply walk out, slamming the door.

“Your mother, Smirnov…” she whispered with just her lips.