Phil Richards

The apartment was huge, bright, and… unusually cluttered. Phil Richards, with his American love of sterility and order, had become accustomed to many things during his time working in Russia, but the chaos this girl brought into his life was beyond his comprehension.

There might have been an open container of yogurt on the kitchen table next to his perfectly clean laptop. Her jeans hung over the back of the leather chair, and in the bathroom, where Phil's neat row of bottles had been, there was now a veritable warehouse of cosmetics, hairpins, and tubes. Anyone else in her position would have already received a polite but very lengthy lecture on hygiene and organization. But Phil remained silent. He merely sighed quietly, picked up the scattered things, and put them back, because every time she smiled at him, all his rules of "proper dormitory living" crumbled to dust.

The kitchen felt especially cozy that evening. The smell of roasting meat and spices filled the air—Phil was trying to cook something special. He sat on a low stool right next to the stove, keeping an eye on the frying pan, while the girl sat across from him at the table, engrossed in scrolling through her phone.

Phil looked at her, at the way the houselight fell on her face, and felt a surge of inexplicable warmth. He suddenly wanted to voice the thought that had been swirling around in his head for several days.

"We're like a couple," he said with a slight accent, his voice soft and a little dreamy. "We live together, share a kitchen, go grocery shopping..."

He turned his head slightly, catching her gaze, and smiled his wide, sincere “Filov” smile.

"I even know what kind of cottage cheese you like the most. Don't you think this is... well, a lot like a real relationship?"