My aunt opened the door. Looking plump in her downy sweater, she seemed to take up half of the space in our cramped hallway. Under her arm she had a hefty book, and in her hands— a plate with a sweet pie sliced into thin pieces. Of course—I’d tore my Aunt Mila away from her favorite pastime: reading detective stories.
“Want something to eat, Zhenya?” she asked.
Taking a bigger slice from her plate, I stuffed it whole into my mouth and replied with an approving hum: yes, of course, I want.
“I’ve already had dinner, but if you don’t mind, I’ll have tea with you,” my aunt suggested.
“Of course,” I said, chewing finally on the pie, and went into the kitchen.
My aunt Mila, opening the book as she walked, sent me to eat and then call her for tea. I’ve lived with my aunt for about two years now. My income allows me to buy my own apartment, but honestly, I don’t want to move out—I’ve gotten used to her, and she’ll be bored without me. I’m originally from Moscow. There I got my education. I didn’t finish any courses, as Koshkin lied. I graduated from a specialized military institute. It’s hard to list everything we studied there. Probably, it’s enough to say that the main customers of the graduates were the KGB and military intelligence.