Page 91 of Sexting the Pakhan

A wrong number. A mistake. A private, reckless thread that became flirtation, then heat, then something I used to open when loneliness made me stupid.

I should have stopped after I left Ruslan’s house.

I didn’t.

Pregnancy made everything worse. My body belonged to the twins before they even had names. I was tired all the time and hungry in strange ways and furious at the smell of onions. I cried over a detergent commercial once and then yelled at Karina for laughing because, according to me, the socks in the commercial had “finally found a family.”

Karina had said, “Zoya, I love you, but the socks are actors.”

I had cried harder.

The desire was worse than the crying. No one warns you properly about that. People talk about nausea and swollen feet and back pain. They don’t say that some nights you will lie awake, enormous and aching and lonely, with your skin too sensitive and your mind going places it should not go.

I thought of Ruslan often then.

I hated myself for it.

I thought of his hands, his mouth, his voice against my ear. I thought of his room by the sea and the way he looked at me like wanting me was not a problem he intended to apologize for.

Those memories hurt too much. So sometimes, I texted the unknown number instead.

He was easier. Faceless. Separate.

A voice in the dark that had no blood on his shirt, no men with guns around him, no power to send me away “for my safety” like I was a problem to solve before morning.

At first, my messages were careful.

Me:Are you awake?

Unknown Number:Yes.

Me:I can’t sleep.

Unknown Number:Why?

Me:Pregnancy is a horror movie.

Unknown Number:You’re pregnant?

I stared at that question for a long time. Then I typed back:Yes.

He didn’t reply for twelve minutes. I remember because I counted every one of them.

Unknown Number:Are you safe?

The question made me cry.

Me:Yes.

It wasn’t completely true, but it was true enough.

After that, I texted him too many times. Sometimes because I was scared. Sometimes because I was embarrassed by how badly I wanted to be touched. Sometimes because I needed release and couldn’t bear the weight of my own thoughts without somewhere to put them.

I never gave him details that could identify me. No full name. No address. No photos. No mention of Ruslan. I was lonely, not reckless enough to hand my life to a stranger.

He answered less as time passed. Sometimes he said nothing for weeks. Sometimes he wrote one sentence that made my wholebody remember the woman I had been before the girls made me into someone new.

Unknown Number:Tell me what you need.