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It was the end of my senior year, just a few weeks before graduation, and the school was buzzing with that end-of-year chaos. I was 18, captain of the volleyball team, with a tight athletic body I knew turned heads—especially Mr. Demir’s. He was our young history teacher, 32, tall and built like he still played sports, with dark hair, a trimmed beard, and those intense hazel eyes that always lingered on me a little too long during class. I’d been teasing him all year: short skirts on dress-down days, bending over his desk to ask questions, “accidentally” brushing against him in the crowded hallways.
Seryoga Bakhin returned home exhausted and excited. “Come on…” he said briefly from the doorway to his pet, and for the third year his legal wife, Linka Bakhina, habitually opened up, without even getting up from her chair, like a pearl-bearing sea shell.
We were sitting at a round table on the first floor and playing cards. The two-story cottage rented for the day was in a pine forest on the shore of a reservoir. And having swum to our heart's content, we were now drinking, playing and chatting. The reason for such a vacation was the long-awaited meeting of my husband Denis and his childhood friends Ilya, Andrey and Alexey.