It was Boris I missed, the whole impulsive mess of him; gloomy, reckless, hot-tempered, appallingly thoughtless. Boris pale and pasty, with his shoplifted apples and his Russian-language novels, gnawed-down fingernails and shoelaces dragging in the dust. Boris- budding alcoholic, fluent curser in four languages- who snatched food from my plate when he felt like it and nodded off drunk on the floor, face red like he’d been slapped.

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