Tatchka rides behind my back, presses against me with a thin body, wraps me with her legs. And I start to burn—wildly. Improperly. Until red spots appear before my eyes.
And the mantras that used to save me don’t help anymore.
They no longer save.
They haven’t saved for a year.
Since that past, damned summer, when I kissed her after graduation.
Me, Sergey Boytsov—widely known in narrow circles as the Fighter, a former boxer, a fairly successful businessman, a normal, calm, solid man—thirty-five years old.
I kissed an eighteen-year-old girl who had just finished school. My sister.
My stepsister.
Whom you can’t touch.