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About Kryvyi Rih

I saunter up, tip my hat, all cool-like. “Evenin’, miss,” I say, voice smooth as whiskey. She smirks, like, “What’s a bailiff want with me?” I’m thinkin’, *“Maybe we’re just pretending to live,”*—another *Yi Yi* gem. Ain’t that the truth? We’re all playin’ parts down here. I ask her rate—straight up, no bullshit. She says, “Ten bucks, mister, take it or scram.” I laugh, loud and deep—ten bucks in 1800s coin? That’s a damn fortune! Surprised me, her guts did. Gotta respect the hustle.

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I decide to walk it off, so I head down to the riverbank. The Dnipro is looking pretty today, but I can’t enjoy it. My mind’s racing. I’m thinking about all the things that went wrong. I sit on a bench, and this old man next to me starts chatting. He’s telling me about the good ol’ days in Dobrovelychkivka. I’m half-listening, half-wishing I had a burger in my hand.

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