SEVEN
I’ve sort of gotten used to the explosion of butterflies whenever I’m supposed to meet with Russia for an appointment—the first of our next three sessions together.
He's at the end of my schedule today, the last couple of hours right after supper time, and I’m finishing up eating an apple.
I check out the state of my lipstick on my phone, a satin formula that I usually don’t wear since I want my lipstick to stay where I put it, but s**t is it moisturizing, candy apple red to go with the graphic green winged eyeliner I have on today.
I’m feeling festive even if the holidays have past us by.
I wash my hands with some antibacterial wipe, fussing with my lipstick through my own reflection in my phone, counting down the minutes until Russia shows up.
And counting the minutes past wh
