I’m standing next to Pasha as he gives the store attendant his address so they can deliver my new glasses once they’re ready, when a man enters the store and heads toward the rack of sunglasses. He’s holding a phone to his ear, talking to someone.
My eyes skim over his dress pants and white shirt and stop on his bright red tie.
I should look away. Turn and focus on something else.
I can’t.
It feels like my eyes are glued to the red material around his neck. The tie that was used on me by the client was red. I bite my lower lip until it hurts and squeeze Pasha’s hand.
“Mishka? Are you all, right?”
I close my eyes, trying to suppress the memory of my body being pressed into the bed while I desperately clawed at the tie around my neck. My breathing becomes faster. Shallower. I can’t get
