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MOSCOW-TULA, 5 February 1989, 10:27

Dima draped a blanket over her shoulders. "You cold?"

"No."

"What's wrong?"

She looked at him. "What's wrong?"

"Yeah."

She looked away.

"Olesya."

"Never mind."

"No, please. What just happened?"

She sighed. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "You said something strange about—"

"Strange?"

"Yeah, strange."

"Of course. Strange. I get it."

"Come on, help me out here. What am I supposed to think?"

"What do you want from me?"

He recoiled. "I don't want anything. I just—"

"You just want to make me feel better."

"Sure. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." She turned away.

They sat in silence for some time.

The train wheels beat their tempo. The snow rolled behind the window. An occasional telephone pole passed by, then it was snow again. Cold. White.

Dima got up and started putting on his clothes.

Olesya looked at him, alarmed. "Where are you going?"

"Just getting dressed."

"Don't," she said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't go."

He looked at her.

She dropped her face in her hands. "Please. I want . . . I want to have sex with you."

"You want to have sex with me."

"Yes."

He sighed. "All right."

"Right now."

"All right, all right. I'm here." He sat back down.

"It's my birthday tomorrow."

"I know."

"I'm turning twenty-one."

"Yeah, I know."

"No, you don't understand. It's not that. It's just . . . I want to wake up and look in the mirror and say, 'Happy birthday, Olesya. You're no longer a virgin.' "

"Okay," he said.

Olesya said nothing.

"Can I ask why it's so important—"

Blood rushed to her face. "Go! Just go!" she shrieked. The force of her voice surprised her. Where did it come from? "I'm sorry, I—I don't know why I said, I really don't. Ignore it. Dima—"

He moved back, silent. Then he stood and stepped into his shoes.

"Dima, please."

He took hold of the door latch.

"Let's try it. One more time. Please." She lay down and spread her legs, waiting.

He looked at her and through her, motionless. His face lost color. "I need to get some fresh air. Be right back."

"No, you won't," she said.

He flashed her an angry look. "Why? Why did you just say that? Why do you always have to be so negative?"

"I'm not."

"I'm going."

"No. Please." She reached out to him.

He passed a hand through his hair and gazed at the floor. "Look, Olesya. The truth is . . . well, I can't. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"What?"

"I can't, okay? Not like—I can't just . . . fuck you."

She winced.

"I want to make love to you. And I want you to make love to me back, not lie there like . . . I don't know."

She sat up and crossed her arms. "Say it. Go ahead."

He pulled at the latch.

"Like a doll. Is that what you were going to say?"

"I'm going."

"Dima." She jumped up, grabbed his arm. "Please. I need to tell you something . . ."

He waited.

Their eyes met.

She stood shivering, biting her lip.

"Can it wait?" he asked.

The train heaved, swung around a curve, and entered a tunnel.

Olesya stumbled and dropped on the bunk. The lights winked out for a few moments, to pitch-black.

When they came back on, Dima was gone.

Olesya sat still for what felt like a very long time. Then she got up, walked to the door, and banged her head against the mirror with methodical repetition until blood gushed out of her nose. She paused, but not to wipe it. Blood had never stopped her. What stopped her was what she saw by her feet.

TUBE.