14
Chloe
I don’t see anyone in the dining or living room downstairs, so I walk around until I find the kitchen. Walking in, I see a curvy woman with bleached blond hair cut in a short, poufy bob. Dressed in a flowery pink-and-white dress, she’s bent over a sink, washing a plate, so I clear my throat to warn her of my presence.
“Hi,” I say with a smile when she turns around, drying her hands on a towel. “You must be Lyudmila.”
She stares at me, then bobs her head. “Lyudmila, yes. You Slava teacher?” Her Russian accent is even thicker than her husband’s, and her round, rosy-cheeked face reminds me of a painted matryoshka doll, one of those that have other dolls inside, like onion layers. I’m guessing she’s in her mid-to-late thirties, though her skin is so smooth she could easily pass fo
