Afterwards, my name became Vitali Andreevich Konstantinov.
Then,Good Boy.
And as hard as I’ve tried to scratch that one out of my flesh, out of my soul, they buried that deep, and it isn’t in any written record, and it wasn’t going anywhere. Carved into me in a way that forced me to the outskirts of humanity. Of her life.
No closer, never closer.
Not until I learned how not to be ‘Good Boy.’ Not for a while. But, she’ll wait for me.
Katya.
I became fascinated with her, although ‘fascinated’ is up for interpretation.
I watch as Katya walks to work.
She’s arm-in-arm with her best friend since grade school—Elena Olegova. Twenty-three. A nurse. Lives in a bad district. Buys her coffee after long nights out, because she can only afford it after spending time with those types of friends; otherwise, it’s cheap, bitter instant powder. I know her type, her type likes my type.
I watch as Katya goes dancing.
She’s self-conscious, and she does not need to be. No creature in the world has ever been so graceful. She never dances with men, which is good, because I’m not ready to be tested. I don’t know if I’m okay yet. I don’t know if I can talk myself throughthat like I have to with other things. Sometimes the record skips.
I have to know more.
I learn that Katya’s mama is Olga Nikolaevna, born in October, 1951. She doesn’t work. She has a health condition, but I can’t find what it is because she’s had it for a while, and all the fucking files in the hospitals are gone. But I know she likes asters. She always stops to smell those when she walks to the bakery on the other side of the market. Never buys anything extra, never for herself, but she pauses to look at things through the windows of electronics stores. She grew up in a different time, with a different mentality. It doesn’t take much to make her happy. Help her feel pampered. Important. Ease her life somehow.
Katya’s soul is beautiful. Whenever she goes out, she buys white chocolate for her mama. Katya doesn’t like white chocolate; she doesn’t care for chocolate at all.
This is helpful to know because I’m learning that buying girls chocolate is good, but not Katya, so it doesn’t matter to me.
Her brother, Maxim, walks to school with Olga Nikolaevna when it’s light out in the mornings. He’s fond of electronics—and I used to love electronics as a kid. Mine are a little different now, more complicated and built to destroy things and kill people, but I can still relate.
He needs help with math, and I know math. I taught myself math; I can teach him math. That’s why her family is made for me. I’ll fit right in.I have to fit right in.
I watch as Katya cooks.
I know because her window is cracked, and I can smell the pierogi. They smell like something you’d leave for God to salivate over. She buys no fancyingredients, but I bet she could do wonders with some. I’d like her to cook for me, and when she moves in, I’ll get her whatever she wants.
But Katya wouldn’t like me. There is too much wrong with me. Too much is broken. So I have to become someone she would like. It’s not time yet.
I wrote you a love song, but I spelled every word wrong,Vivi Tex sings in my ear as I solder in the back room of the warehouse.
I can learn. I’m good at learning. There is knowledge all around, but people just walk by and ignore it. They sit with their hands folded in their laps until someone opens up a textbook for them. Until someone forces them to read. Convinces them to prove they’ve read it, like a test.
I test myself.
I take a girl out. I do what I’m supposed to—flowers, gifts, and open the door. I didn’t want to open the door or give her flowers, because she isn’t Katya, but I have to practice because I can’t afford to mess it up with the real thing. I learned my lesson already.
I don’t even remember the girl’s name. I didn’t know what she wanted to eat, so she ordered for herself. I’d never let Katya order for herself because I’d already understand what she likes, but I’d let her find out things she hasn’t tried, because I want to see her discover the world I give her, and I do plan to give her the world.
I didn’t like that test. She asked me if I wanted to come up for coffee after, and I got irrationally angry. Didn’t care to explain myself, just left. She shouted insults to preserve her pride.
But I learned a lot from that. Flowers mean something. They are tools to communicate.
I wanted to send Katya flowers, but I wasn’t ready yet. It might mean she thought they were from someone else, and Icouldn’t afford that. Because I wasn’t okay yet.
My Katya doesn’t date, and that is good.
She knows to wait.
