The gentle rays of the morning sun wrapped the earth in soft waves of warmth, painting everything around in golden hues, yet Yana did not notice this beauty. Her thoughts were consumed by something else entirely. Today, neither the sunbeams dancing along the path like little bunnies, nor the curious sparrows searching for crumbs in the grass, nor the cheerful laughter of children playing in the sandbox brought her any joy. All of it passed by unnoticed. Yana was beside herself with anger after a heated quarrel with Maxim. What could be hidden? Years of pent-up frustration had finally boiled over. It was one thing that he was an artist, constantly searching for himself—a fact she had long come to accept. But how was he going to provide for the family with his paintings, which were rarely sold and for a pittance? That filled her with incredulity.
Perhaps he was indeed a gifted autodidact, but why did he refuse to study at an institute if he had decided to dedicate his life to painting? Yana couldn’t understand it. She had always believed that any profession, especially a creative one, required serious training. Unfortunately, her ability to objectively assess Maxim was clouded by her feelings. As is well known, love has an amazing ability to blind. And yet she wanted to believe that one day his income would stabilize, that he would find his place in life, and that they could have a beautiful wedding. She pictured herself in a chic champagne-colored dress, feeling like the heroine of a fairy tale at a royal ball. However, that dream came with a hefty price tag. With his creative pursuits and her modest nurse’s salary, achieving that dream seemed a distant prospect. This did not add harmony to their relationship, but Yana tolerated it. Maxim’s work wasn’t bad, and she hoped he would eventually find a worthy application for it. However, her grandfather’s inheritance became the last straw. He had started talking about selling the house at auction and using the money for a carefree life. That was too much.
Yana adored her grandfather with all her heart, and his little house by the pond was a special place for her. She didn’t care that now the land could be profitably sold for development and a good sum of money obtained. She would always have time to sell it later—nobody was rushing her. Perhaps she wanted to preserve that little corner for her future children, so they could come here, swim in the pond, and feast on strawberries, just as she had done in her childhood. But Maxim, you see, had already decided everything: he had planned how to spend the money. Yet the lady of the house was Yana, and it was she who was to decide the fate of the grandfather’s legacy. This dispute had erupted this morning with incredible force. Maxim shouted that she was a narrow-minded village girl who didn’t understand modern realities and the opportunities to earn. Finally, Yana had told him everything she thought about his role as the head of the family and breadwinner. In the end, the enraged man slammed the door and headed off to a bar to drink beer, while the distraught Yana went to work, trying to pull herself together.
Before entering the trauma department, she took a deep breath, trying to focus. She had a job that did not tolerate emotional breakdowns. She loved her profession, despite the modest pay. Here she felt needed, saw the people she could help, and observed the results of her work. She was nothing like Maxim, who was involved in something vague, not understanding who needed it. No, she wasn’t a genius or a creative personality. But someone had to take X-rays of broken limbs, even if the patient was a world-renowned genius.
The workday helped her forget her troubles for a while, but by the end of her shift she felt she absolutely did not want to return home and face Maxim. Her disgust was so strong that she began to wonder: had she stopped loving him?
“Hey, Juliet, what are you thinking about? Has Romeo done something again?” a friend’s voice was heard. “But the films still need to be taken to the department.”
Svetka immediately picked up on all of Yana’s moods. There was no point in pretending before her.
“Found another reason to be discontent, haven’t you?” Yana sighed as she gathered the day’s X-rays. “That freeloader, Svetka. He lives off me, and now he’s set his sights on grandfather’s house, wanting to sell it.”
“And what, do you need to be a billionaire?” Svetka, who suffered from a lack of attention from men, did not share her views. “He paints well? Fine. Doesn’t drink? Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t smoke? Doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t chase skirts? Doesn’t chase. Not even swearing. In our day, there are hardly any like that left. Why do you need this house? You work like a horse here. Maybe you two should go abroad. You’ll remember this for the rest of your lives.”
“No, no, Svetka, you don’t understand. This house is like a memory, you know? I always remember my grandfather and my childhood there. How he taught me to swim, how we caught little fish together and fried them. They were so tiny, crispy, and delicious. I never ate anything like that anywhere else. Now imagine—I’d spend that money on a vacation in Sharm-el-Sheikh, and then what? Memories of sitting on a camel or lying under a tent in the heat? No, that’s not for me. If Maxim wants it so badly, let him think about how to earn.”
“My friend, you better not be mistaken. In our life, any man, at least some man, is needed. Maxim isn’t the worst option,” Svetka said, clearly not sharing her mood. “I’d have your problems.”
Yana said nothing in response. She knew how unlucky Svetka was in love, and realized that perhaps she shouldn’t have been so candid. With a sigh, she headed to the department with a firm resolve not to return home today. Why had she been given an inheritance if she wasn’t going to use it wisely? It was high time to go and weed the strawberries before they became overrun with grass and spread out like mustaches. She’d have to buy something to snack on the way to the bus station. Let Maxim have a break from her. And she, too, needed a break. She had no strength to watch him spend his entire weekend sprawled on the couch, sipping beer and watching football. He’d better at least play it. Any movement at all!
Outside the bus, the expanses of meadows and groves flashed by, distracting Yana from her heavy thoughts. She had always loved the journey. Every time, it felt as if she was traveling far away, into a new, better life where something awaited her beyond the horizon that would change everything for the better. She recalled her grandfather, opening a beehive while wearing a hat with a net, surrounded by buzzing, alarmed bees. What delicious honey her grandfather used to harvest! In their area, acacia bloomed, and the honey turned out fragrant, light, and airy. It was hardly thick, and it was so pleasant to spread on fresh white bread! Yana swallowed. Her grandfather had sold the hives shortly before his death, realizing that such labor was beyond him now.
She reached her grandfather’s house at dusk. A light steam was rising over the pond, and the willow bowed its branches toward the warm water. Somewhere on the other side of the pond, a nightingale was testing its trill, and frogs, in the throes of mating season, filled the area with a polyphonic croaking. The air was still, not a single leaf stirred. And was she really going to sell this paradisiacal corner? Yana stubbornly shook her head and pushed open the gate. If she hurried, she could still take a dip. Her phone vibrated, showing a call from Maxim. Yana silenced it and entered the house.
The house was immersed in a quiet, soothing atmosphere, exuding a light but warm hospitality. An old clock with a striking function hung on the wall, a lace tablecloth hand-woven by her late grandmother covered the table, and the sideboard displayed now-rare faience trinkets that, in her childhood, had been strictly forbidden to touch but incredibly fascinating to examine. Yana recalled how she used to hide under that very tablecloth, climbing on the table legs, and waiting for the adults to come looking for her. She had no idea that her silhouette would shine through the lace, and the adults could clearly see where the nimble child was. And then she again…
…thought that using a hoe might damage the bushes. The hand tool would be reserved for working between the rows. With a sigh, she put on protective gloves and began to pull out the weeds, using her grandfather’s chisel. The task was undoubtedly challenging, but the bushes, freed from the clutches of the weeds, joyfully straightened and spread their serrated, dark green leaves so that Yana attacked the work with doubled energy. By the end of the day, a large bed was cleared, and the still-green forming fruits turned their porous sides toward the setting sun with readiness. Exhausted, Yana sank onto the grassy carpet. Ah, the strawberries weren’t as good this year; without someone caring for them like…
…someone’s care. Yana collapsed onto the grass. Alas, this year the strawberries were off, no one tended to them without the loving care of her grandfather. The leaves were smaller, and there were too few blossoms. The bushes had lost their master. Well, then she would try to be the mistress as much as possible. She needed to feed the bushes. But with what? She knew nothing of her grandfather’s secrets and had no fertilizers on hand. Racking her brains, Yana remembered the old compost pit in the far corner of the garden. It had remained untouched for a long time; everything dumped there had long since decomposed and matured, perfect for fertilizing. It was time for the bucket and shovel. The compost needed to be loosened, and Yana already began to regret taking on the work. But her stubborn nature prevailed, and the shovel repeatedly sliced through the dark, dense layers. Suddenly, the shovel struck something hard. The sound of shattering glass rang out, and to her surprise, Yana discovered a glass jar in the compost. It was curious. Throwing foreign objects into the compost pit was strictly forbidden by her grandfather. Yana carefully began to excavate the small pit, trying not to cut herself on the shattered glass. Finally, she extracted the jar, closed with a rolled-up lid and containing a cloth bundle inside. In complete bewilderment, she carried her find into the house to open it. Gently unwrapping the heavy bundle, she unfurled the piece of cloth. Before her astonished eyes lay an incredible sight: a heap of jewels on a simple piece of fabric—earrings, rings, chains, all brand new with tags from jewelry stores, glimmering with a warm, muted light. Oh, grandpa, you hid a treasure and didn’t even have time to tell us! Yana recalled her grandfather’s fragmentary hints: “Don’t dawdle, Yanka, after I’m gone you’ll have something for your wedding!” and “You know, princess, your grandfather isn’t a dwarf, but he hid a little treasure.” Ah, grandpa, grandpa, it was you—having survived defaults and currency devaluation—who decided to put together a little treasure for your granddaughter. Precious metal was the only thing you could still trust, however little. Yana vividly imagined her grandfather, after selling his harvest or honey from his precious apiary, going into a jewelry store, scrutinizing the display carefully, then calling the seller over to take a closer look, choosing something that pleased him, and returning home content. He had always loved doing things thoroughly and with taste. Unbidden tears welled in her eyes. Grandpa, oh how she missed you now! Reliable, loving, solid. But nothing could be done; life was arranged as it was, and one had to try to accept it.
That night Yana couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t leave the found gold in her grandfather’s uninhabited house, but she couldn’t take it home either—Maxim was home all day, and he would find it in a heartbeat. Then it was lost; he would do everything to seize and spend it. She only fell asleep once she decided to spend the money on a bank safe deposit box, at least for the initial period.
Yana returned to the city at the start of the workday. Several missed calls from Maxim appeared on her turned-on mobile. She didn’t feel like calling back and immersed herself in work, planning a visit to the bank during her lunch break. The day turned out to be especially hectic. There were many trauma cases, and she barely managed to sneak out for her errands. She had to eat on the run, and even then she had to stay after her shift. In short, she got home, exhausted, dreaming of a meal and a long sleep. Maxim, as usual, was watching TV and fuming over the missed calls. That was just perfect—no need to talk. Yana quickly sipped some tea and fell asleep right on the small couch that doubled as a stool in the kitchen.
In the morning, she awoke to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Maxim had already removed the cezve from the heat and was pouring coffee into cups.
“Well, I hope you’ve let off all your steam?” he asked, noticing that Yana had woken up.
“Is that a substitute for ‘Good morning’?” she squinted.
“Whether it’s good is yet to be determined,” Maxim replied skeptically.
“And what is needed for it to become good?”
“At the very least, your realization that running away to your grandfather’s house from the man with whom you plan to build a family is downright foolish. By the way, that’s yet another reason to sell it, so you don’t get into the habit.”
“Max, don’t start,” Yana didn’t want to quarrel. “I will never sell the house. It’s so wonderful there!”
“And you’re planning to buy that champagne-colored dress on your nurse’s salary?” Maxim was cool and sarcastic.
“No, I’m paying for your paintings,” Yana began to retort.
“Stop blaming my art!” Maxim instantly assumed the pose of an unrecognized genius. “You know nothing about it!”
“Well, of course I don’t. My job is to hustle in trauma, to figure out how to make ends meet so I can pay for the apartment and save for the wedding—and not die of hunger. Max, I’m starting to get tired of this hopeless situation. At this rate, we’ll only be able to have a wedding when I’m nearly retired. Then what use is a champagne-colored dress?”
“It’s your dress—and not only that, it’s in your hands. Stubbornness is a powerful obstacle to progress, if you didn’t know.”
“Yes, my dress is in my hands! And I will have it! And the house will be mine! And all without your art!” Yana snapped, her tone growing cold. Maxim was clever; he guessed that she was hiding something.
And so it happened. Maxim instantly focused and began scrutinizing Yana’s face, as if trying to read what she had left unsaid. But the girl had already gathered herself and quickly disappeared into the bathroom to avoid further questions. Maxim spat in anger. It seemed that the inheritance hadn’t brought her just a house, but also some money, judging by how well she was holding up. Forceful pressure would have to be replaced by a sweet incentive. It was time for a new painting. Maxim downed his coffee in one gulp and hurried off to a nearby park.
In the park that early morning, everything was as usual: mothers with infants, elderly women knitting or reading a romance novel, small dogs with their not-so-small owners, and the ever-present itinerant artist with yet another pastel on his easel. His figure, clad in a patched-checkered shirt and worn jeans with a brightly patterned drawstring over his forehead, had practically become a living element of the park’s design, so accustomed were the park-goers to him. No one knew who he was or where he came from, but everyone knew that he slept in a shelter and eked out a meager living from the money earned on his paintings, so compassionate citizens sometimes bought them not so much for the love of art as out of sympathy for his plight. Even now, he was painting something, squinting in the bright sun. Maxim quickly settled down beside him.
“Greetings, PicAssO! Has inspiration visited you today?”
“When you address me with the names of art titans, I immediately understand the real reason behind your visit,” the artist muttered without looking up from his sketch of a girl with unruly hair, ignoring Maxim’s glance.
“Right on target. But today I need not just any picture—a portrait,” Maxim declared, slapping a photograph of a laughing Yana onto the easel.
“Your beloved?” the master remarked, glancing over the photo. “She’s far too pretty for you.”
“Mine. Everything else is none of your business. Get to work with the brushes.”
“And as always, will you tell her it’s the fruit of your genius?”
“Mind your own business. Damn it, I once got a shove to open up to you. Your ‘masterpieces’—is there a queue forming? I, by the way, am your only stable client. Since when do wandering moralists of canvases lecture the very ones who feed them?”
A hint of a smile danced at the corners of the artist’s lips.
“Young man, haven’t you heard the saying: ‘Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched’?” He added, “Don’t stick your nose into my fate. And if you think I don’t care how my works are used, you are gravely mistaken. Even Scripture says: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone…’ My conscience gnaws at me for being part of the deception of this lovely lady. Your intentions, young man, are clearly not related to her happiness. Yes, my paintings rarely sell. Yes, I am currently without a roof over my head. But I will no longer partake in your lies. That’s final. And now—don’t interfere with my art.”
Turning his back on the study, he began to blend the shadows with anger.
“Well then, Malevich, you’ll get your square in full measure,” Maxim muttered through clenched teeth and strode away, dialing a number on his phone.
“Elephant, listen! You free? Swing by the park, I’ve got a job for you,” he hissed into the phone. After receiving confirmation, he flopped down on a dimly lit bench, waiting.
Not even half an hour passed before a mountain of muscles approached, causing the bench to creak under the weight. Any passerby would immediately understand the origin of the nickname “Elephant.”
“So, what’s up, businessman? Spit it out, what do you need?” the hulking figure grumbled, spitting his chewing gum onto the ground.
“There’s a problem. One guy is disrupting the financial flow. We need… to persuade him.”
“Who?” Elephant demanded, not one for many words.
“Over there—the pretender Repin by the fountain. He fancies himself a genius and refuses to cooperate. Without his brushstrokes, I can’t pull in the money.”
“You’re f***ing kidding… He’ll fall apart from a sneeze! Couldn’t you handle it yourself?”
“This bum isn’t that simple. Stubborn as a mule and yet preaching morality. The whole plan is ruined.”
“Are they closing down the shop?” Elephant asked with a crooked grin.
“Not yet, but there is a risk. We need to nip this in the bud.”
“Alright, the boys will handle it quietly. But your share’s going down by five percent. You’re making too much fuss.”
“Deal,” Maxim grimaced. “Just do it faster.”
Meanwhile, the artist, unaware of the brewing storm, was enjoying the last rays of the sun. Yesterday’s sale of a landscape had allowed him to have a decent meal for the first time in a week. Today, fortune smiled on him again—a sketch of the girl had been sold without bargaining. He already imagined spending a warm night under the open sky instead of in a stinking shelter…
“Hey, Aivazovsky! You still there?”
A sharp shout yanked him from his reverie. In front of him stood three stocky men with unkind expressions.
“What do you want?” he asked inwardly, shrinking.
“You’re on the hook, man. You owe us. You owe us a painting that they dictate,” the leader said, clapping him approvingly on the shoulder.
“But I…”
A blow to the solar plexus folded him in half. Bloodshot circles began to form in his eyes. And then something inside this fragile man broke—as if a dam holding back years of humiliation had burst.
“Aaaah!” With a roar, he drove his fist into the assailant’s jaw. The second received an elbow to the ribs. But the third blow—heavy and precise—sent him into darkness…
“Yana, straight to X-ray! They brought in a seriously beaten man!”
The duty nurse tore herself away from her cup of tea. It was night, minimal staff, and now an emergency case. On a stretcher in a room lay a man beaten nearly to death.
“My God, isn’t that the artist from the park!” she recognized him as she turned his body on the table. “Who could he have troubled?”
His eyelids trembled:
“Drink…”
She held a glass to his parched lips.
“What a blessing…” he whispered, taking a sip. “Your hands… they’re like angelic.”
“Do you know what your name is?” Yana asked as she filled out his chart.
“Evgeny… Kulchitsky…” he managed to say. “Homeless…”
“That doesn’t matter now,” she abruptly cut him off. “You need an operation. I’ll talk to the doctor about the quota.”
For the rest of her shift, she couldn’t get him out of her mind. Before leaving, she peeked into his room. He lay there, watching the haircuts outside the window.
“How are you feeling?”
“Alive and kicking,” he weakly smiled. “Three against one isn’t exactly sporting, but I managed to land a couple of punches.”
“What did they want?”
“Who will sort them out…”
“Do you need anything? From your personal belongings?”
Suddenly, his eyes lit up:
“Paper… and a pencil. That’s the best medicine.”
“I’ll bring them, definitely,” she promised as she left. In the corridor, she bumped into the attending physician studying the X-rays.
“Igor Grigorievich, forgive the intrusion, but… can you add Kulchitsky to the list for the quota operation? I’m afraid he won’t trouble himself for his own health.”
“I’ll add him, but by the time his turn comes, it won’t amount to much. Time is against him. The optimal window is within the next two weeks. Then there’s a real chance for full recovery. Delay, and the chances fade with every passing day.”
“And how much… does such an operation cost?” Yana gulped, feeling the chill in her fingertips.
The sum mentioned made her shrink internally. The poor man probably had never seen that kind of money in his life.
Bursting out of the office, she dashed to Svetka.
“Svet, listen, it’s urgent! The artist from the park was brutally beaten last night. He needs an operation urgently, and he’s got no money. You’re so at home on social media—let’s organize a fundraiser! He’s almost a local celebrity; everyone knows him. Maybe people will respond…”
“And why are you so worked up?” Svetka squinted. “Fell in love or something?”
“Come on! It’s just… I feel sorry for him. He’s completely alone.”
“Look, friend,” Svetka frowned, “from pity to love is one step. Remember that guy at the gym?”
“Yeah, but what does that have to do with… All right, are you in or not?”
“Do you think I’m heartless?” Svetka sighed. “I’ll post it. Maybe we’ll raise something.”
In a burst of gratitude, Yana hugged her friend and dashed home.
Upon opening the door with her key, she froze on the threshold. Maxim, pacing irritably in the room, was shouting into the phone:
“Rat! You think that by snitching on me to the cops all our problems are solved? You’re mistaken!”
Yana’s breath caught. So that was the one behind the beating! What did this person threaten her with if he could so easily deal with the defenseless?
Quietly closing the door, she ran to the police station.
The captain with gray whiskers listened to her disjointed account more attentively than she had expected.
“Can you file a written statement?”
“Of course,” Yana replied without hesitation. “I can’t live under the same roof with him any longer. If he hired thugs to beat up the artist, what’s to wait for me?”
“Logical,” the captain nodded. “We’ll draw up the report now and take your man away. A night in jail won’t hurt him. And for now, you’d better live somewhere else.”
When Yana returned, Maxim was already being loaded into a police car. Seeing her, he flew into a rage:
“You little rat! You think that by ratting me out everything is solved? You’re wrong!”
“Wanna add time to your sentence?” she roughly shoved him into the police car. “Shut up before you end up behind bars.”
Only then did Yana feel her hands trembling. A hungry spasm twisted her stomach—as if she hadn’t eaten for days.
“You need to eat, so that the adrenaline goes into digestion, not the heart,” she recalled the advice of an old cardiologist.
“Hey Svet, can you let me crash at your place for a couple of days?” she called to her friend, hastily packing a suitcase. From Maxim’s drawer, she grabbed pencils and paper—for Evgeny.
The next day she burst into the ward with a radiant smile:
“Good morning!”
“You really are a fairy!” the artist exclaimed happily as he accepted the gift with reverence. Suddenly, the hospital walls didn’t seem so gloomy.
“Just no fanaticism,” Yana said sternly. “You need rest.”
But he was already absorbed in sketching with his pencil, completely detached from reality.
That evening, when she visited him again, she saw three finished drawings on the bedside table. He was critically examining a fourth one, squinting.
“May I see?”
“For you—always,” he smiled.
Yana took the sheets—and shivered. She wasn’t an art expert, but the style was painfully familiar. Exactly like Maxim’s!
“Evgeny… did Maxim often buy your drawings?”
“You guessed it,” he murmured wearily. “I hoped you wouldn’t find out.”
“Why hide it?”
“He’s your… guy. And disappointment in a loved one is a cruel thing. I didn’t want you to go through that.”
“I’ve already been through it,” Yana bitterly smiled. “But how did you know about our relationship?”
“He brought your photo… wanted to order a portrait. I refused. And, in general, I stopped working with him.”
“And so he hired those… creatures,” Yana whispered. “Don’t worry, they’ll be punished. Maxim has already been detained.”
“You… are amazing,” he looked at her in admiration. “A real Valkyrie.”
“Come on,” she blushed. “I was just scared that he might pull something similar with me.”
A week later, she and Svetka were tallying the collected funds. Many people had responded—apparently, the townspeople truly valued their artist. The sum was substantial, though still a bit short of the needed amount…
“So, shall we count the losses?” Svetka said, angrily throwing a calculator on the table. “The donation stream turned into a pathetic trickle.”
Nervously twisting a lock of hair around her finger, Yana said, “I have an idea. Grandfather left something aside from the house. Let it serve a good cause.”
“Yanka, you’re completely off your rocker!” Svetka squinted. “All day you’re at his bedside, feeding him pastries, and now you’re planning to sell the inheritance for his operation. It seems you’ve got a diagnosis—saving helpless men. I agree Maxim turned out to be a bastard. But Kulchitsky is totally broke! I heard his ex not only took the paintings but even snatched an apartment in court. He didn’t even understand how he ended up on the panel.”
“If you want your friend not to go insane from grief and her talent not to fade—help sell his works. The fundraiser did bring in something, right?”
“Your persistence is like a tank,” Svetka sighed. “Alright, I’m in—helping until the end.”
Within an hour, Yana burst into the resident’s office with sparkling eyes:
“Igor Grigorievich! Prepare Kulchitsky for an operation—the funds are there!”
The surgeon theatrically raised his hands: “Oh, woman! Is there any fortress in this world you won’t take if you’ve decided?”
The operation proceeded within perfect time. Yana, blossoming more each day, drove Evgeny around in the hospital garden, caring for him with touching tenderness.
One day, while twirling a pencil between his fingers, Evgeny suddenly asked: “Yana, why do you need a cripple without a roof over his head?”
“Who told you that you’re a cripple?” she exploded.
“Just think about it: you’re holed up at Svetka’s, I’m lying in the hospital. And then what? You’re on a friend’s couch, I’m on a bench in the park? Or will we end up sleeping embraced under a bush?”
“I’m no fool, and you’re a hardened pessimist,” Yana boiled. “‘Cripple’… Do you know how many likes your sketches have gathered? And you haven’t even sold out! We’re going to live in the grandfather’s house—there you’ll have plenty of room for creativity. I’ll switch to 24-hour shifts—awkward, but with two days off. We’ll sell the works online—now that’s as easy as pie. And besides,” she tapped his chest with a finger, “despair slows down your recovery!”
Evgeny suddenly looked at her seriously: “Looks like it’s time to paint your portrait. Otherwise, I might just burst from an overload of feelings.”
On the day of his discharge, the entire hospital staff gathered to see them off. Yana, beaming, clutched the gift—her own portrait. It turned out astonishing: on paper, her essence had come alive—resolute, tender, and infinitely deep. She never suspected that someone could see her like that.
“Svet, did you upload the portrait to the online gallery?” Yana whispered.
“It’s already gathering hype like a magnet,” her friend winked.
A month later, Yana was flying along the path to the pond where Evgeny was fussing over his easel.
“Evgeny!” she shouted, out of breath. “You blew up the internet! A rush order and an exhibition offer!”
Evgeny hugged her, laughing: “Alright, now I’ll definitely buy you that champagne-colored dress!”
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