“Hi. Stella here?” Kostya tried his best to sound confident, holding back his excitement.

What stupid fancy names they take. All these…

“Hi. Yes,” a tense female voice replied.

“It’s me. I called you an hour ago.”

“Ah, yes. You’re here?” Her tension subsided slightly.

“Yes. Standing right outside your block.”

“Door four, floor six, apartment ninety-five,” she jabbered quickly. “Don’t press the doorbell. I’ll come open the door for you.”

It was a working Friday at about noon, so the apartment building’s yard was nearly empty, and yet far from welcoming. Parking his car, Kostya barely avoided scraping it against an ill-placed metal pillar. A young woman rolling a baby in a stroller grumped at him although he wasn’t blocking the sidewalk, and a bunch of older ladies seated on a bench gave him an instant X-ray examination with their hostile eyes. What’s he doing here? Visiting those floozies on the sixth floor?

The nine-storied building was old and shabby. Entering the semi-dark stairwell, he smelled mold and sewage.

All the elevator buttons were burned out, the numbers they once bore invisible, so he had to detect the one for the sixth floor by counting from the top. Like for a rocket launch.

The door slid open, revealing a big brown six painted on a dirty wall.

Well, at least I’ve got the floor right. Wait—what apartment number was it?

He looked around helplessly, smartphone in hand, not daring to call her again.

From inside one door, a muffled patter of heels came, the woman wearing them apparently trying to move silently. Stepping up to that door, Kostya waited for her to notice him through the peephole.

At last, the door opened.

Standing in the doorway was a girl of about eighteen, the same girl whose seductive photos on a dating website were signed with the most likely fake name of Stella. Her photographer was really good. At photoshopping, too. The real Stella had less than half of her online depiction’s stunning beauty.

Giving Kostya a professional once-over, she apparently classified him as a sucker: a scared first-timer, safe to deal with.

“Come in,” she said casually.

In the hall, Kostya saw a pair of men’s sneakers and a black coat. Coming from behind a closed door were melodramatic moans; it was probably the coat’s owner being serviced by Stella’s colleague. The hushed voices from the kitchen betrayed the presence of other working girls in the three-bedroom apartment.

Hanging his coat next to the other man’s, Kostya hesitated for a moment, then shifted his wallet from the coat pocket to his jeans pocket.

Stella led him down the hall, to the farthest door. Her room was cramped, most of it occupied by a double bed with a floral cover. Crammed in alongside the bed was a small couch, and the curtained window was flanked by a wardrobe and a TV set with some pop singers lip-synching on the screen.

He went around Stella in a broad arc (as broad as possible in the narrow passage) to sit down on the couch. Plopping on the bed across from him, she asked without much interest, “Why are you so scared?”

“I’m not. Not at all,” he mumbled, cursing his shyness. “What’s your name…for real?”

She hesitated before answering. “Natasha…maybe. Are you going to do it or what?”

Honestly, I’d rather not. The girl looked much worse in real life than in her website photos, although not to the degree where he could claim deception. Her rude manners, along with the ambiance of this entire place, was totally putting him off. But, on the other hand, it seemed stupid to leave now. Did I drive across the whole city for nothing? Maybe it will feel better when we get down to it.

“I…I am.”

“Then pay upfront.”

Taking the hundred bucks that she hadn’t actually earned yet, she gave Kostya a blue towel and told him to go take a shower.

Wiping his wet body with that one hundred dollar towel in a tiny bathroom, he kept arguing with himself. Dammit. What am I doing? I don’t want her at all. Should I leave? But I’ve paid already! I’ll look like a complete idiot. Well, okay. It may still come out all right in the end. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he tip-toed into Stella’s bedroom, a sweater in one hand and jeans in another.

No miracle occurred.

Spending fifteen minutes down by Kostya’s side, Natasha concluded that he was too tense. Not that she really tried to help him. Unless simply glancing down there impatiently and screaming, “Hey, boy, what’s wrong with you?” counted as help. She didn’t seem to care about anything other than getting paid. The client’s erectile dysfunction was none of her concern.

She did offer him some beer as a stress reliever, though, and he nodded in agreement. As she fetched a cold bottle of Budweiser from the fridge, they spent the remaining forty minutes making small talk. Sometimes she would pause to give his groin a brief examination, commenting something like, “Not up yet? That’s really weird.”

He couldn’t get it up for Stella. Instead, he wished he could choke her.

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Just a bit. For a start. To sweep this mocking, arrogant expression off her heavily made-up face. To see her skin turn crimson, her veins bulging and eyes popping out.

He wanted her eyes to be full of fear. The thing he most wanted in a woman but hardly ever got. It would get his manhood up instantly.

The eyes of the young girl he’d ambushed by the summer camp last year had had that look. Pure, primal fear. But that was the only time, hardly even deserving the name.

Well, you’ve got to crack a few eggs to make an omelet.

As Natasha chirped about one of her regulars falling in love with her and coming four times a week for two months, Kostya tried to calculate the amount of money that poor guy—if he really existed—had spent, but struggled to focus because of the intruding, persistent memory of last summer’s encounter.

The thick shrubs around the summer camp. His fingers feeling the soft vertebrae beneath the girl’s thin skin…

From the hall, a soft whisper came, followed by a suppressed laugh. The other working girl was seeing her client off. Good thing I took my wallet. I wouldn’t bet on any of them not stealing it.

“Okay, Natasha. How much time do we have left?”

“Ten minutes.” Turning her face to Kostya, she stopped abruptly as though catching a glimpse of his summer memory in his eyes. “Why are you staring?”

“Am I?” he asked in return, flatly.

“You are.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll better get going.”

Exiting the apartment building, he was once more under the crossfire of the old ladies’ glares. If I had three arms, one of them fifteen feet long, I could’ve grabbed them all by throats from where I stand. And with my fourth arm, I’d get that dog trotting behind me.

Wait. No. I’d rather trample on that nasty, yelping thing’s head.

He was in a rotten mood. Not that he had really expected a different outcome. It was not his first, but probably the last, of his attempts to become a normal man.

Enough. I’m not doing it anymore.

Now. Anya.

The girl next door.

He sometimes saw her passing by on the street.

So pretty. Long, light-brown hair. Intriguing dark eyes which she turned down when passing by.

She’s all I need.

Kostya had done his research: finding out her apartment number, where she went to school, the usual times she went to school and returned home. He hadn’t approached this desirable, young thing yet out of fear of scaring her off. That summer camp encounter had taught him to plan his every step carefully.

I can’t fail again.

But last night, his perfect plan hit a snag thanks to a bad job done by some factory-line worker in Southeast Asia many months ago.

Anya had entered a nearby 7-11 store twenty minutes before Kostya. She grabbed a metal cookie cutter from the shelf and dropped it into her cart full of groceries. It was exactly the shape she needed to make cookies for her birthday party.

Paying for her purchase, Anya had only taken a few steps towards the exit when the cookie cutter’s sharp, curved edge cut through the green plastic bag, making a ragged hole right between the one and zero imprinted on the bag, warning of its weight limit. Tin cans, fat lemons, and pimply cucumbers rained down to the floor, confirming the new balance of the bag was reset to zero.

It was at that moment that Kostya entered the store to grab a beer after work.

Barely avoiding stepping on a dirty, yellow lemon rolling towards his foot, he picked up the fruit, and his gaze fell on Anya, who was gaping up at him from her squatting position.

Kostya tried to smile, but his whole face went numb despite the blood pounding in his temples. His pursed lips would not part. Shit. Shit. Shit. Just my bad luck. It’s too early. Now what? Just pass by? Approach her later as though nothing happened? But she’ll remember me. She’s seen my face already.

A few seconds had already passed with them just staring at each other. He had to do something. Do it. Now. Go around her and get your beer, or…

“Just a sec.” Forcing out a smile, he got a new plastic bag from the counter. Dropping the lemon in, he came back to Anya, who was collecting her cans and packages from the ground, and crouched by her side to help.

“Do you live nearby?” He had to start with some small talk in order to look friendly and not suspicious.

“Yes. On this street.” Picking up the cursed cookie cutter from the floor, Anya awkwardly wrapped it up with the torn bag. “Thank you very much, sir.”

She reached for the bag with her groceries, but Kostya slowly pulled it away and smiled. “Kostya.”

“Anya.”

“May I carry them for you?” Standing up, he opened the door for her.

Walking down the street by her side, he kept his eyes low, avoiding the spaces between the concrete slabs on the sidewalk. Stepping on these is bad luck. He had no idea why this thing that he used to believe as a child had popped into his mind now. Angry with himself, he stepped on a crack deliberately, breaking his pace.

Come on, say something. Anything. Don’t be silent!

“Is that food for the week? Or for a party?” He nodded at the bag of groceries.

“A party. Tomorrow is my birthday. I’ll be baking in the morning.”

“Oh. Then, happy birthday,” he said casually, his mind running frantically over all the options. Too good a chance to miss. But I don’t want to scare her. What should I do?

Invite her for a walk in a park? Too boring.

A tour of the city? Even worse.

…or a tour of his place? Man, are you crazy or what?

Then a well-rounded phrase suddenly escaped his lips as if it were someone else speaking. “My friends have a cozy family restaurant just outside the city. It’s never too busy or crowded. We could have lunch there.” He put all of his acting ability into maintaining the tone of a world-weary playboy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a gleam of excitement in Anya’s eyes. Bingo. Let’s build on it.

He spoke about the wonderful fresh air in the restaurant’s forest location and the opportunity to get to know each other better, in private. What are you doing, moron?

“Um…to have a talk in a quiet place, without noise and distractions,” he specified. “Can I take you there next week? On Monday, maybe? You’ll be on fall break, won’t you?”

Anya walked by his side silently, never raising her eyes, but he could feel her mounting interest. Still looking down, he went on. His tongue seemed to keep the conversation up on its own while his mind was focused on observing Anya’s reactions.

She’s smiling. Good. Oh no, that’s a bit too much. Careful, man. That’s her apartment block. Time to say goodbye. Her mom won’t see me. At this hour she’s probably still at work, and their apartment windows look out on the other side. Good thing I checked it out in advance. Now, let’s make my voice full of doubt.

“Hey. Your mom won’t let you go on a date with an adult, will she?”

Blushing, Anya looked away. “Oh, it’s fine. No problem. I’ll tell her I’m going to the movies with the girls. I…I’ll be fourteen tomorrow. I’m almost an adult myself.”

Kostya gave a composed nod. Where do I pick her up? Not right by the building, no way. I don’t want any neighbors to see her getting in my car.

Looking up at her, he suggested, “Let’s meet on Monday, about noon. Downtown.”

“Okay.” Her eyes were shining mysteriously.

Nailed it. Now the phone number.

“Hey, looks like my phone battery is dead. I can’t call you now. Can you tell me your number?” Kostya retrieved a pen from his pocket to write her number down on the crumpled store receipt, praying that no one would decide to call him at that very moment.

“Sure.” She dictated the number.

Great. Now I need to get a new SIM card to call her. I’ll throw it away right after. I’d rather not use my regular one.

Tucking the receipt with her number in his pocket, Kostya smiled almost sincerely. “Okay. Happy birthday, again. Nice to meet you. I’ll call you early on Monday.”

Handing her the groceries, he strolled away, clutching the smartphone in his coat pocket and thanking it for not ruining the whole thing with inopportune ringing.