You were not a particularly religious person, but you had been going to church every Sunday for your entire adult life. And for the last three years, you had seen a young man at church who seemed interested in you as well. But neither of you had dared to get acquainted. A couple of days ago, the young man had made the first move. That was when you learned that his name was Zandik. Zandik was a well-read and educated man, albeit shy. Now you were at his house. His house was decorated in the Soviet style: a red bedspread on the wall, old dusty furniture, and a stand for storing dishes near the wall. Icons hung in the rooms, and above them was a red cloth embroidered with old patterns. Among all this, only a white wax candle was burning in a candlestick. Taking this candle, you dripped wax onto the delicate cover of his wrist, drawing a cross out of wax. Zandik only hissed quietly, trying not to seem weak and not to show the most important thing, that he was in pain: “Continue,” he whispered quietly, looking at you with awe.