Page 74 of Sexting the Pakhan

“Have you always been this?” I ask.

“No.”

“What were you before?”

“A son.”

The answer is so flat that I look at him. His face gives me nothing.

“What happened?”

“My father died. Then the men who hated him tried to take what he built. They thought I was too young to hold it.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-six.”

I try to imagine him at twenty-six. Younger than he is now, but not soft. I don’t think Ruslan was ever soft.

“And you held it,” I say.

“Yes.”

“What did it cost?”

He looks at me then. For a moment, I think he won’t answer.

Then he says, “Most things.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I don’t say anything. We keep walking until the house looks smaller behind us and the guards keep the same distance like shadows pretending to be polite.

After a while, he asks, “Why did you come to the city?”

The question catches me off guard.

“What?”

“You said you couldn’t afford to stay. That means you came for a reason.”

I kick at a shell half-buried in the sand. “Everyone comes to the city for a reason.”

“I asked yours.”

I want to make a joke. Something about better coffee or public transport or bookstores that stay open past six. But he doesn’t ask questions often. When he does, he listens to the answers, and that makes lying feel strangely difficult.

“I came after a breakup,” I say.

His attention shifts fully to me. “A man.”

“No, Ruslan. A tragic falling-out with my cactus.”

His mouth almost smiles. “A man.”

“Yes. A man.”

“What did he do?” The question is too calm.

I give him a look. “You sound like you’re asking for an address.”