Petya went to the bedroom. The door didn’t latch unless you lifted it, so it stayed open a crack. Springs creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed. A minute later, his fist hit the mattress once, a dull, swallowed thud, and then the room went still.
I stood in the living room in my black dress, bare feet aching on warped laminate, dark hair coming loose down my back, tips and bills spread across the table.
I tried every clean answer first.
Rent. Gas. Electric. Food. Debt.
Extra shifts. Advance. Loan. Sell the necklace our mother left, if the pawnshop gave me anything. Beg for more time.
Every number came back dead.
The folded receipt from Tamar sat inside my coat pocket.
I didn’t touch it at first. I made tea instead, because the jar of instant coffee was empty and the tea bags were cheap enough to taste like paper. I opened the refrigerator and found half a carton of milk, two eggs, and a plastic container of rice that had gone dry at the edges. I closed it again before the light could make the shelves look emptier.
In the bedroom, Petya turned over. The couch springs answered. Rain ticked against the taped window. Downstairs, someone laughed too loudly in the hall, then a door slammed.
I pulled the receipt from my pocket and smoothed it beside the bills.
The number seemed harmless in black ink. Ten digits. It carried no name, no door, and no face.
I searched the number on my phone without calling. Nothing came up. Of course nothing came up. Men who bought women didn’t leave customer reviews.
I went to the bathroom and turned the shower on so Petya couldn’t hear me if I broke. The water knocked inside the wall before it came hot. Steam clouded the mirror in patches.
I stripped out of the dress and stood there in my slip, staring at myself above the chipped sink.
Gennady had watched me like the decision was already made.
He thought three days would teach me where to kneel.
My hands shook once. I pressed my palms flat to the sink until they stopped.
Then I returned to the living room, picked up the receipt, and typed the number into my phone.
The first message took too long because my fingers kept hitting the wrong letters.
I deleted it.
I tried again.
Deleted that too.
Finally, I wrote one line.
I need information about a private contract.
I stared at it until the words blurred.
From the bedroom, Petya turned over again. The old floor creaked under the radiator. Rain ran down the glass in thin silver lines.
I hit send before I could hate myself enough to stop.
The reply came less than a minute later.
Available tomorrow. Virgin status required. Payment guaranteed if accepted. Are you untouched?
My breath left me in one long, silent stream.
