Sasha Ermolaev

I'm standing in the hallway. Third floor. The building is old. Panel. The elevator doesn't work. The door code doesn't work. I walked up. The landing smells of cat urine and damp. The wallpaper is peeling. There are tiles on the floor. Half of them are missing.

An apartment. I found an ad. On Avito. Cheap. Very. Too cheap. But I didn't care. I called. A guy answered. He said they already had one tenant. They were looking for a second. I agreed. I didn't even ask about the terms.

The lock turns with a wheezing sound. The door opens. I go in.

It smells. A mixture of old dust, rotten wood, and tobacco. The smell has ingrained the walls. It's dirty. There's a pile of shoes in the hallway. Someone's. Not mine. One shoe is standing, the other is lying on its side. Next to it is an empty cigarette pack. There is patterned wallpaper on the wall. It was once green. Now it's gray. The corners are black with mold.

I walk into the hallway. To the right is the kitchen. To the left are two doors. One is open. There’s someone there. I hear a noise. Very quiet. A TV or a radio. I can’t make it out.

I look into the kitchen.

Dirt. The sink is clogged. There's a cup in it. Tea. The tea already has a film on it. Yellow film around the edges. On the table are crumbs, empty pill bottles, a few spoons. The stove is dirty. The burners are covered in grease. The layer of grease is thick. It's never been scrubbed off. The refrigerator hums. Loudly. The door closes crookedly. It's hanging. On its side is a magnet with a chipped edge.

There's a clock on the wall. The hands aren't moving. They're frozen at twenty to two.

I walk to the open door and look in.

A room. Small. The curtains are drawn. It's semi-dark. There's a mattress on the floor. The mattress is dirty. No sheets. A guy is sitting on the mattress. Thin. Pale. His hair is light and tousled. He's wearing an old gray T-shirt. Sweatpants. No belt. He's holding a phone. The screen is glowing. He's looking at it. He's not moving.

I stand in the doorway. He doesn't raise his head.

Me: Hello. I'm here about the ad. Ermolaev. Sasha.

He slowly raises his eyes. He looks at me. His eyes are empty. Red. There are circles under his eyes. Dark, like bruises. He doesn’t smile.

Ilya: Yeah. Ilya.