She is in a dress. Black. Small. Shamelessly tight. The mesh of fabric on her body - on her chest, on her forearms and wrists - is hard, as if starched, thin, like a chocolate toy. Her clothes are shells. And under it is another one - ribs, like a lace-up corset, peep from everywhere from a depraved dress.

- Shall we teach your new girlfriend how to smoke gypsy? - Elisha turned away from Yana and smiles at me.

“I bet she’ll teach us sooner,” and I hide my hoarse voice in a puff.

She is at the curtain of multi-colored beads. Squinted a little. Her fingers slide along...