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I got mad once, right? This dude—total sleaze—kept braggin’. “Best erotic-massage ever!” Lies. All lies. His hands were shakin’ like a newbie with a chainsaw. Couldn’t rub a lamp right. But when it’s good? Oh, man, I’m happy as hell. Like Eilis findin’ love in Brooklyn. “You’re the most beautiful thing,” Tony’d say. Swap “thing” for “massage,” and I’m sold. Surprised me too—thought it’d be all fake moans and awkward vibes. Nope. Sometimes it’s legit art. Hands dancin’ like they know ya.

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By the time evening rolls around, I’m exhausted. I head to my favorite spot on the corner of Haharina and Shevchenka for some dinner. I order the borscht, of course. It’s the best in town. I sit there, just enjoying the vibe. The streets are buzzing, people are laughing, and I’m thinking, “This is what life’s about.”

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