Zhanna Slor - At the End of the World, Turn Left

“There is no way in hell I’m going to do that.” The fact that Margot suggested it only shows how distant we have become. It’s bad enough I’m already wasting most of my time studying a subject they chose for me, I’m not about to spend the rest of my free time sitting in their horrible house in the suburbs while they ask me where I am going and when I will be back. Plus, I don’t have a car. “You just fucking met this guy,” I say, waving towards the house. “Now you’re going to live with him?”

“For a few weeks, and then…” her voice trails off.

I want to scream. We were supposed to be old ladies together, that was our plan. Now I’m not sure we will make it through the year. I drop the cigarette on the ground and turn toward the street. My fingers are cold and red from the wind and snow, and I shove them in my pockets.

Margot follows me. “Anna, I’m sorry—”

“I’ll figure it out. It’s fine,” I interrupt. I start walking down the sidewalk just for show. But then I realize the snow isn’t so bad and I might as well walk the whole way home. Margot attempts to follow me, but I stop and tell her, “Just go back to your boyfriend.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I’m making pretty good time zigzagging northward towards campus, walking past a late-night diner and sports bar on Farwell Avenue, when I finally realize someone has been following me. Not sure how long it’s been, but I’ve definitely heard the same footsteps behind me for a while. Heart pounding, I turn to make sure it’s not some deranged killer—though what would I do if it was?—and spot the blue-haired guy from the porch. He runs to catch up with me.

“Hey,” he says, his breath forming a cloud into the bitter cold air. “I thought you’d never slow down. Are you some kind of marathon runner?”

“What are you, a stalker?”

“I’m a concerned citizen. You shouldn’t be walking around alone like that. It’s not safe.” He starts to jump around a bit on the soles of his feet like a firecracker, his breath following him in short little bursts.

“I don’t even know your name,” I tell him. “How is that better than being alone?”

He stops and takes out his hand, and I shake it. “Hi, I’m Tristan,” he says. He sweeps his hand out, like the male version of a curtsey. “Nice to meet you.” His face melts into a smile, showing off his perfectly straight teeth.

I give him a funny look. “What are you on?”

“Nothing, scouts honor,” he says, holding both his hands up. Then he reaches into his pocket and produces a silver coin. “Two months sober today.”

“Oh!” I say, surprised. I’m thrown off by such an honest admission. I’ve never known anyone in NA. Or AA for that matter, although I know plenty of people who could probably benefit from it. I’m not sure how to respond. I also find myself uncomfortable with his gaze; it is focused and excited, like when Abby does too much Adderall and starts cleaning the house fanatically. Except this is a sober gaze, and the intensity makes my body feel a little like it’s melting.

“Um. Congrats?” I eventually choke out. Something like electricity passes through us, like a tram as it moves along the cable. To avoid turning into a puddle, or a frozen popsicle more likely, I start walking again.

“Where you headed?” Tristan asks, still following me, his energy at such a high level it almost rubs off on me.

“Oh. Center street. Center and Bremen,” I lie.

“Cool. Me too,” he says. Now that he is closer, I notice he is not only tall, but he is towering over me by at least a foot. Which would make him close to six foot five.

“Oh really. What a coincidence,” I say, sarcastically.

“I am!” he says. His excitement has turned to giddiness now, and he is practically bouncing on his toes. He reminds me of a child in desperate need of recess.

“You can keep following me, but just know I have my hand on my cell and I can type 911 really fast,” I threaten. I pick up my pace. It’s still freezing out, and getting later by the second. Not exactly the best time to be walking around outside in Milwaukee. Especially with some blue-haired giant.

“Noted,” he says. He speeds up his wide-legged pace to match mine. A bus begins driving past us, its windshield wipers working furiously, but I don’t try to run to the next stop like I might have if Tristan wasn’t walking alongside me. It would also require crossing the entire length of a city block in less than a minute; I’m more likely to slip and fall. I’m no longer in so much of a hurry. I can’t remember the last time someone new took any interest in me, and it’s not like I have anything else to do now that Margot ditched me for her new boy toy.

“Hey, I didn’t catch your name,” Tristan says.

“That’s because I never told you my name. It’s Anastasia,” I say. “But people call me Anna because they can’t pronounce that.”

“Really? And you let them get away with it?”

“What choice do I have?”

“You should correct them. Otherwise they have the wrong idea of you before you even talk.”

I watch him, surprised. No one has ever put it like that before, and it’s bizarre to hear it from a total stranger with blue hair. “Yeah. I guess that’s sort of true.”

We turn right on North Avenue, just east of the bridge. The dim yellow bulbs of its streetlamps are barely visible from beneath the swirling white snow, the river below so black it looks like an abyss. “Technically it’s not wrong, exactly, being a translation and all. And it’s not so bad. My mom’s name is Lyubov. You can’t imagine the number of wrong ways you can pronounce that.”

Tristan asks, “What is that, Russian?”

“Yes. It means ‘love’ in Russian. Most people call her Luba for short though.”

“Are you from Russia?”

“We are Ukrainian, technically speaking. Or Soviet? I never know how to answer that. We speak Russian, and it was the Soviet Union when we left, but now it’s Ukraine,” I say. “I’ve never even heard a word of Ukrainian, so it doesn’t feel right to me to say I’m Ukrainian. But I’m not from Russia, either. Sorry, that’s probably way too much info.”

“No, that’s dope,” he says. He rubs his large hands together for a second then sticks them into his very small pockets. I notice a small tear on the side of his black jean jacket, next to an assortment of patches with band names on them. Punk bands, if I had to guess. I remember seeing similar logos in Masha’s old room that is now an office.

“I think it’s confusing,” I shrug. We keep walking down Farwell, watching the cars swim through layers of slush and snow and dirt, my toes getting soaked and the frigid wind burning the thighs of my legs into numbness. But I ignore my frozen limbs. I am actually starting to cheer up a little. Something about the combination of physical effort and discomfort clears my mind, like meditation. I almost forget I’m not alone, until I catch a blue smear in my periphery vision and remember.

“What about you? Are you from here?” I ask.

“Nah, I’m from Virginia originally. Then Austin, and New Orleans for a while. I’ve been traveling around a lot.”

Passing the Oriental Theater, then a crowd of smokers outside Landmark Lanes, we hit a red light and stop moving. For a second, we stand there, silently. Tristan is close enough to me now that I can smell the patchouli on his clothes. I dissect his river of blue dreads, his bright blue eyes, his nearly invisible eyelashes. He, too, seems to be scanning me. I try not to wonder too much what he sees; my face is likely bright red from the cold, my hair, falling halfway out of my hat, is wet and slowly turning into icicles. I am completely sober and aware enough to count off all my physical defects; my short stature, my sensitive skin, my slightly crooked teeth. That said I also know I’m not ugly. Tristan seems to be making the same or a similar assessment. Because out of nowhere we start kissing.