Only three months ago you were here. Your pajamas were folded at the end of the bed. I moved them to your pillow. They still smell like you, like soap and cigarettes and Russian cologne. When I can't sleep at night I lie on my back and talk to the darkness, just like we used to do, except it was your body beside me instead of pajamas. Pajamas don't make the mattress sink down. They don't breathe slowly and deeply when they are silent. They are always silent. They don't reach out to touch my hand to comfort me and they don't kiss me good night. They don't drink good wine, they don't laugh loud and clear like a bell, they don't sing Russian songs while they're cooking. I could love them more than the stars, but they wouldn't love me back.

You don't know that I'm back into my old habits, selling my body in order to live. I have to close my eyes most of the time now. I don't pretend they're you because no one else could ever come close to that. Instead I pretend that every man I sleep with brings me one day closer to you; every man is a step on my journey back. It helps, a little. I never used to feel disgusted with myself after work, but now I shower for a long time afterward. Sometimes I'm in there for hours. I tell myself that it's not my fault, it's the Nazis that took you away from me and it's because of them I have to be a whore to make money. And really, there is no work elsewhere. I tried everything I could before I made the conscious decision to look for a brothel. At least this one is safer, the clientele is a higher class, they pay better and they treat the girls better. Listen to me, making excuses for broken promises.

I still wear the ring. It is the only thing keeping me sane, my mind dependent on a small piece of silver.

I hate this city.

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