He seems unhappy with her answer, and she senses a current of tension run between them. She sees the struggle in his eyes, as if he were not sure whether he could believe what she just said, as if he wanted to be guilty. It is the same struggle she sensed in him when she announced she was going to Moscow, a struggle to believe what she was saying. Or maybe it is much simpler than that. Maybe, as all provincial men, he thinks that a proper virgin should whimper in pain or squirm in shame, instead of feeling satisfied and happy. She wants to tell him that she is certain she could reach into the place where she stores other people’s emotions and find the requisite pain. But she knows it would be someone else’s pain, not hers. She wants to feel what she feels, to be content for the first time, to prop herself up on the Party pillow with a smile on her face, the smile that makes his face tense.

She rolls to the edge of the bed and lifts the blanket. There is no blood on the sheet, not even a drop. She has no idea what this means, and she wishes she could ask her anatomist mother later, but she knows, of course, she can’t.

“It is my first time,” she says, her voice already defensive. “You are my first.” She wants to say “my first man,” but that would sound as if she were putting him into some grotesque line with men she hasn’t yet met who are going to queue up to have sex with her next.

He draws his arm around her and presses her face into his neck. It smells like marzipan she tasted once, a gift from a Georgian student in her dorm, a sweet and sweaty smell. “I love you,” he says, “no matter what.”

“No matter what?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer. He has already closed up, retreated into himself. He strokes her hair, then winds it around his hand. “Let’s go to sleep, krasavitsa,” he says. “It’s late.” He kisses her on the cheek and turns away.

She wants to object, to clear the air between them, but when she turns to Andrei, he is already asleep.

Sasha opens her eyes and sees the streak of light on the floor, only now instead of the pale yellow, it is bright saffron. Andrei, dressed, is packing his suitcase. She sits up in bed, rubbing open her eyes to face the first day of her new life.

“Do you have to leave so soon?” she asks as he pushes the clasps on the suitcase closed.

After a minute of silence, he speaks reluctantly. “I have to go back to my life. And you must go back to yours.”