My Friend's Daughter

“Hello, Andrey,” the girl says, stretching her caramel-pink lips into a wide smile. “Is it okay if I’m this informal? Or is it better to call you Andrey Vyacheslavovich?” I don’t have any sensible words, so I silently nod while my mind turns into a complete mental meat grinder. I deprived the only daughter of my best friend of her innocence. The skinny little doll I brought a Barbie as a birthday gift when she was eight—just a week ago she was naked, kneeling in front of me. Total failure.