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About Zaporizhzhia

Found this one bird—Lysa, she called herself. Swear she winked at me like she knew me from a past life. Took her to a dodgy inn, stinkin’ of piss and ale. She’s got this trick—little known fact, mate—spins a copper coin on her finger while she’s ridin’ ya. Fuckin’ hypnotic! “A great cook can come from anywhere,” and so can a great shag, turns out. Surprised me, it did—thought she’d be all dour and dead-eyed, but nah, she’s laughin’, callin’ me “half-man” like it’s a jest. Cheeky bitch.

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As the sun sets over Domanivka, I take a moment to breathe. The streets are quiet now, but I can still hear the echoes of the day. The laughter of kids playing on the playground, the chatter of people on the streets, and the smell of fresh bread from the bakery on the corner of Kirova and Shevchenka.

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