Page 3 of My Russian Roommate

“Thank you. You’re all sooty,” he replies and I squint my eyes at him.

“I just mean that you must want to take a shower. The bathroom is at the end of the hall. I’ll get you a towel and something to wear.”

“That would be nice. Thank you,” I glance at the round, gold-framed mirror above his entry table and see the clean streaks that my tears made on my soot-covered face. There must be a pound of ash and other fibers in my hair as well. I feel my cheeks get hot as I realize what a terrible first impression I must be making. I don’t know why it bothers me but it does.

I follow him down the hall where he opens the door to his bedroom. It’s just as neat and expensively furnished as the rest of the apartment and I wonder just how amazing it must feel to slide under the puffy down comforter on his king-size bed. I hover in the doorway as he goes inside and collects a towel, tee shirt, and a pair of boxers from his closet.

“I don’t have anything that will fit you well but this shirt should cover you,” he smiles at me for the first time and I have to wonder what must be going through his head. “I’ll fix some dinner while you shower. It should be ready when you come out.”

“You don’t have to do that. Please don’t go out of your way for me,” I tell him.

“It’s not an inconvenience. I have to eat, too.”

My apartment burned down before I had a chance to shower or eat so I don’t press the issue any further. Being offered a meal is like winning the lottery right now.

“I assume you have to work tomorrow?”

“Oh, yes. I work the afternoon shift.”

“Bring me your uniform when you’re done so I can wash it for you.”

I nod and follow him to the bathroom. He turns on the light and leaves me to clean myself up. He has one of those rainforest shower heads and the water feels amazing on my body. I soap myself up and scrub away the grime from the fire, wishing I could also cleanse myself of the worries that this mess has made worse for me.

Is there anything that could make this situation more screwed up? I suppose my host could barge back in here and attack me. As I consider the possibility, I feel my heartbeat quicken. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. He is pretty fine and I can’t see myself putting up much of a fight before deciding that I want him to attack me.

I tell myself that I shouldn’t think that way. He’s probably just a very nice guy who saves kittens from trees, helps old ladies cross the street, and takes pity on losers like me. I could stay in this shower forever, but I’m sure Lev wants to shower, too, so I cut it short to save his hot water. I dry off and slip his shirt over my head.

It’s huge and makes me look like a little kid wearing my mother’s nightgown, but the fabric is soft and feels good against my skin. The fact that it smells like Officer Lev is just an added bonus. I have to roll the waist of his boxers and secure them with my hairpin just to keep them up, but it’s probably better than walking around in just a shirt so I’ll live with it.

I walk out into the hall and get struck in the face by the most amazing aroma wafting out from the kitchen. I follow the smell and find Lev standing in front of the stove. His flannel shorts and white tee shirt catch me completely off guard. In this less official attire, he looks like the kind of guy who spends all his free time in the gym lifting things that are heavier than me. By far, his is the best body that I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen much, mostly just on TV and billboards.

“I had some leftovers to heat up. I hope you like it,” he comes to the counter where I’m leaning and hands me a glass of wine. “Are you old enough to drink?” He inspects me from top to bottom as I stand here in his baggy clothes.

“I’m twenty-one,” I answer and take the glass from his hand. “How old are you?”

“Why? I think you can tell I’m old enough to drink,” he grins.

“Curiosity?” I shrug.

“I’m thirty-nine,” he stares at me when he says it.

“That food smells amazing. What is it?” I have to change the subject because I’m embarrassed for asking his age.

“It’s called zharkoye. I believe you call it a stew. Beef, potatoes, carrots, onions, mushrooms…”

“I do call that a stew and if it tastes as good as it smells, holy moly,” I smile.

He places a tray of warm, crispy bread in the center of the table then brings over a bowl of stew for each of us. As I approach, he pulls out a chair for me. This is the first time in my life that anyone has done that. Fuzzy feelings erupt in my chest.

“Thank you,” I sit down and look at the amazing food that he’s placed in front of me. “Did you make this or do you have someone come in and cook for you?”

“I made it, malyshka. Nobody cooks for me,” he replies.

“I just thought maybe you had some help. Being a police officer seems like a busy job.” And suddenly, the thought strikes me for the first time. I can’t believe I just assumed he was single. “Do you live here alone or…?”

“Yes, all alone, no wife hiding in the closet. No girlfriend in the fridge. Not even a mother in the laundry room. Just me.”

The food is so delicious I go back for seconds. I don’t even care if I look like a pig at this point. This man can cook.

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