I wake up to a dim, sandstone light flickering in the corner of my eyes. As I sit up, something falls off me and to the ground with a swatting noise. My jacket.

I don’t remember having it on me before I went to sleep.

I turn to the source of light in the room, coming from a corner. It comes from a glass hurricane lamp, lit by kerosene. I’ve never used one of those. Even where there’s no electricity, most of us have used diesel lamps for years.

The woman is dangling her legs off the table edge, where she sits next to the lamp. She’s holding a book in her hands. Again.

I pick up my jacket as I stand. “Did you put this on me?”

“Mhm.” She replies, eyes still glue on the book.

“Thanks. I didn’t need it, though.”

“You might have been cold.”

“I will put it on me myself if I’m cold.”

“Mhm.”

“By the way, that lamp’s broken. How did you fix it?”

The lamp looks a thousand years old. I’m sure I can get it to work if I try, but I’ve never bothered to tinker with that piece of scrap.

“It was not broken. You set the wick too low, so it did not get enough oxygen. It did not have any oil inside as well, so I scurried for some in the corner.”

“How did you know? Have you seen one of those things before?” I’m surprised. I have no idea what her expertise might include since she hasn’t told me much. For all I know, she might be an expert on ancient lamps. That would be impressive, but at the same time not particularly useful.

“No.”

“No?”

“I only read about it in books. This is my first time seeing one.”

So she’s read lamp manuals, or at least books about lamps in general. Why would she read those, though, I wonder. I don’t think randomly picking up manuals is anyone’s favorite pastime.

“Then how were you able to get that to work . . . Hey, look at me when I talk to you!”

Something in whatever she’s reading has captivated her so much that she doesn’t even bother turning to me. Most of my books are boring stuff like submarine manuals or the history of archaeology, but she still reads those, nonetheless. Whenever she’s stuck on something, she asks me annoying questions, and I have to answer them if I don’t want her to ask me the same things for another three centuries.

She talks so much now that I figured the only way to make her shut up is to frighten her. Unfortunately, she doesn’t consider me a threat anymore.

“Could you wait a moment, Alexei?” She lifts her head, finds my gaze for a moment, then looks down at her book again. She’s always greeted me with such attentiveness, hence her indifference now surprises me.

Ugh, this woman! I shouldn’t have been so soft on her in the first place.

“Wow, okay. I’ll just get my smokes then.” I approach her and reach over her shoulder to grab my cigarette pack. “Excuse me.”

“Sorry.” She leans aside without looking at me. “You should not smoke so early in the morning. It is proven that smoking early increases risk of head and neck cancer.”

“I would’ve woken up later if you hadn’t lit up that lamp.”

I go to a corner and light my cigarette. The smell of smoke may have spread to her part of the room, but she hasn’t complained yet, so everything’s fine.

She appears to be very drawn to the book because she hasn’t touched one bit of her bread. Since I woke up, I don’t think I’ve seen her stop reading even for a second to look around.

So I talk to myself, “Hello? Hey, check this out. Watch as I throw this button into the air and catch it! Hey! Have you read about how Erysichthon is so hungry he eats himself to death? I’m sure you’d like this one. So basically this guy is incredibly rich, so rich he pissed on the gods. You know, superiority complex, that kinda stuff. Basically, the gods got so mad at him, so they . . . Hey! Are you listening? Alice in Russia. Hello?”

“I am,” She replies.

“Then what am I talking about?”

“Yes.”

Sure as heck she’s taking in fuck all. She’s foolishly absentminded more often than not, but not a single book on my shelf has kept her so occupied before.

“If you keep your head in the clouds, you’re gonna die before you know it, Alice.”

She doesn’t even respond to my warning. I doubt she heard a single word I said.

How can such a person have survived to this day? Which shithole did she live in?

As I’m deep in my own thoughts, she speaks up. “Vronsky is in love with her.”

“I’m sorry? Me?”

However, it doesn’t seem like the woman is speaking to me. She keeps her eyes sticking to the book.

“Alexei Vronsky chose to dance with Princess Anna Karenina, not Princess Kitty Shcherbatskaya. Alexei does not want to marry Kitty at all. He just flirts with her. He does not love her.”

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“What? What is flirt?”

She proceeds to ignore my question and continues. “He is going to confess his love to Anna, any moment now. I am sure of it. And it seems Anna is fond of him too.”

“Are you reading ‘Anna Karenina’, Alice?”

“Yes. And I did not notice I have a new name now.”

“Yeah, I’m tired of referring to you as ‘you’. Maybe you should’ve told me your name or something. I can call you Alice, right?”

“Uh . . .”

”Yes? No? Maybe? It’s not a hard question.”

”Okay.”

”Good.” I click my tongue and point at the book. “Love story. The only one I have. Oh, I have a question.”

“Please ask away.”

“You do realize that Anna is, um, married, to this guy named Karenin, right?”

I also want to ask why the man in the story has to share the same name as myself. It feels weird having to remind myself that I’m not the guy in the story. But surely she can’t answer that one.

“I do.”

“Do you understand what ‘marriage’ is?” I ask.

She turns to me with a hint of curiosity. “Of course I do. What seems to be the matter, Alexei?”

I shake my head. “You see, we men don’t marry each other where I live.” I don’t think anyone even know what marriage is supposed to be. The only reason I have any understand of this subject is from Anna Karenina and that banned book about women.

“I . . . see.”

Some of them did experience that kind of ‘love’, I think. That is, if love means copulating like how mammals usually do—sticking their hanging ‘dongers’ into the other mammal’s hole and start thrusting; quite a hilarious sight, really. Men can’t stick their dicks up another man’s ass without being ridiculed. If they’re caught, they’ll be called ‘mammals’ or ‘vile beasts’ for the rest of their lives. “Only mammals do such a thing,” the leaders always say.

That’s probably why I’ve never met a copulator. If they were one, they wouldn’t tell me.

“I used to have a good friend named Vasiliy.” After a pause, I laugh wryly, “We did all kinds of stuff together. Even tried to play basketball once, without baskets. But I never wanted to whisper into his ears that I loved him, nor did I want to spend my whole life with him under some sort of stupid ‘marriage’ agreement.”

“But marriage is not only that.”

“Tell me more.” I throw the cigarette on the floor and come sit closer to her.

“Marriage means responsibility and commitment. The man and the woman work together to cultivate their relationship. It is not just a legal contract, Alexei. It is about fostering affection and emotions. Therefore, I must concur that love is the strongest bond of a marriage.”

I shake my head. “Clearly marriage isn’t related to love.”

“It is! What makes you think so?”

“You see, this ‘Anna Karenina’ woman clearly didn’t cultivate or foster whatsoever with her partner, Karenin, did she? How is your point valid? I don’t understand much of what I’ve read at all, but I know one thing for sure. Anna Karenina loves Alexei Vronsky.”

“So she did eventually fall in love with Mr. Vronsky.” She frowns. “You are not supposed to tell me anything I haven’t read yet.”

“My mistake, but you didn’t address my question. From what I’ve read, marriage is just a legal contract. It’s like military draft call-ups. Let me tell you this; we don’t fight because we love fighting. So how is marriage related to love? Isn’t love voluntary?”

She replies immediately, “Marriage and love are quite distinct from one another.”

“How?” I realize I have raised my voice a little.

“There is a reason for all marriages, but it need not be love. Be it love, Anna may have believed that she loves Karenin, but that does not mean it will always hold true. What you might believe today, may not be what you believe in tomorrow. Love is no exception. There’s no right or wrong with what you feel, there are only desires.” She closes the book. “It is difficult to find one true love, but it is far from impossible. I believe Anna shall be in love with Mr. Vronsky forever.”

Her voice softens as it blends into her small giggle, sounding like the music of rills. Her cheeks raise, her full lips slightly curve, and her luminous eyes sparkle.

I drop my cigarette.

So that’s how she giggles. It doesn’t sound like Roman’s, not one bit. I thought I would’ve been disappointed at the revelation. I should’ve been. I’m not.

Roman’s laughs were vitamin pills. Her giggles are painkillers.

“What is true love?” I put the cigarette back inside my pocket. I don’t need a smoke. I need answers.

“It is, in some ways, ultimate desire, Alexei. Like absolute loyalty. Like faith. I believe people’s feelings only change because they have yet to find their ultimate end. Once they do, they won’t leave anymore.”

“So you mean like . . . something you would die for and you would do so while singing and humming, huh?”

“I disapprove of the use of the word ‘die’ . . . but, you can say so.”

“Interesting perspective . . .”

Ridiculous. If love is like faith, what the heck is so special about it? We didn’t ask to stay loyal to our supreme leader. What makes love so desirable? What makes it different?

I doubt love can be as effective as this woman’s giggles.

I can’t figure out how. Maybe Roman could have if he was still alive. He had such strong faith in his supreme leader, after all.

“Listen,” I break the silence. “I have a hard time getting through the book, and I think you can answer some questions I have.”

Her expression suddenly brightens. “I would gladly discuss this book with you. However, you will need to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For me to read, Alexei. I cannot answer what I have not read, and I do not wish for the contents to be revealed beforehand.”

“I won’t spoil a thing.” I put my hand on my mouth and imitate a jacket zipping movement.

“You already did.”

“You didn’t warn me then, so it wasn’t my fault. Since I’m a nice guy though, you can have this as an apology. Don’t worry, it isn’t a gun.”

I throw my unfinished cigarette on the floor and walk up to her while pulling something out of my pants pocket. “I picked this up on the ground. Figured you might like it.”

I place on the book on her lap a flat, round, camo green button, about the size of a thumbprint. “These things are everywhere. They’re plastic, so they can’t decompose.”

It’s a normal button, like the ones on our uniforms. She puts her hands on it and starts brushing her fingers against it again and again meticulously. Then she laughs.

Her laughter is crisp and radiant, carrying with it a speck of innocence I didn’t know existed before. It’s as though her laughter has lifted a veil from my eyes and made me realize the world is more than just suffering.

Aha, so that’s how she laughs! I don;t care what about that button makes her so happy, but I’ll have to find more of them.

“Glad you like it. It’s nothing special, though.”

“Every gift, however small, is precious. The first gift is the seed of a new friendship.”

Wait, what am I doing? Why do I need to find more buttons for her sake? She’s not a friend. I don’t care about her. I’m done caring. I won’t give her anything next time.

But as soon as I stare into her hopeful eyes, my resolution wavers. She’s playing games with me. She’s luring me into her trap of comfort.

“I gotta get moving. Good talk, Alice.” I jolt up and turn away.

“Where are you going this early? You have never gone anywhere at this time of the day.”

“Finding your ring.”

“Oh, yes!” She jolts up. “Most certainly! Come back soon!”

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Okay!”

“Okay. Don’t try to open the door again. Got it, soldier?”

“Yes!” There’s so much energy in her reply it might be enough to light a bulb.

The sandstone light from the room grows dimmer and dimmer as I walk away from the room. When I turn to another corridor, I realize I have completely forgotten to ask her again how she got the lamp to work.

Should I ask her?

If I come back and ask her something so trivial, she might take that as a sign that I care about her. I can’t get too close; that’s a sign of weakness.

“Focus on what’s important,” I mutter to myself. Something important is coming up.

I’m being summoned to Commander Dzyuba’s office.