Chapter 2: A Taste of Copper
The scent of kimchi jjigae, rich and pungent, seeped through the glass container in Jennie’s hands as she navigated the sterile hallway of Leonid’s dorm building. It was a stark contrast to the velvet and rose-drenched air of her own chambers. Here, the air smelled of industrial cleaner and mildew, of lonely meals and collective disappointment. She hated this place. Hated that he had to live here. But she loved the possessive thrill of entering his private space, a place he shared with no one else.
She pushed the door open with her hip, the lock he’d given her a key to clicking smoothly. “Lee? I’m early,” she called, her voice deliberately light, a melody she practiced.
The room was as she remembered—a beautiful disaster. The black-and-gold posters of scowling poets, the bottle of vodka catching the afternoon sun on his cluttered desk. The air was thick with the smell of him: cigarettes, cheap sandalwood soap, the faint, dry scent of ink. Her eyes went first to the bed, the frayed blanket tangled in a heap. He wasn’t here.
Setting the container down on the only clear spot on the desk, she began her ritual. Straightening a book. Folding the blanket. It was an act of devotion, of marking. Her fingers brushed over the pillowcase, imagining the imprint of his head.
Then she saw it.
On the worn brown fabric of the small sofa, nestled against a cushion seam, was a single strand of hair. Long. Deliberately blonde. It glinted in the slatted light from the blinds, a poisonous filament of gold.
Everything in the room went very still. The distant sound of a shower running, the hum of the mini-fridge—it all faded into a high-pitched silence ringing in her ears. She stood, her body perfectly calm, and walked over. She did not pick it up. She stared at it. It was not hers. Her hair was black as a starless night. This was an invasion. A violation of her most sacred space.
Who?
The girl from the café was dark-haired. This was someone new. A flash of a smiling face, blonde, leaning over him at the restaurant. Touching his arm. Laughing at his accent. Her blood, which had frozen, began to move again, slow and hot and thick with purpose. She could almost see it: wrapping this hair around the girl’s throat, pulling it tight until the smile turned blue, until those blonde roots were darkened with the soil of her family’s garden.
The door creaked open. Leonid walked in, shrugging off his threadbare denim jacket. His curls were damp, fresh from a shower elsewhere. He smelled of the restaurant’s industrial soap.
“Jen? Smells amazing in here,” he said, his voice that deep, rough melody that usually unknotted her soul. Now, it was just a sound.
She turned to him. She had practiced this smile in the vanity mirror that never showed her truth. It was sweet, concerned, perfectly curved. “Welcome home,” she said, moving to kiss his cheek. He leaned down, but his eyes were tired. “You had a guest?” she asked, the question laced with playful curiosity. She gestured lightly toward the sofa.
He followed her gaze, his brow furrowing. He walked over, plucked the hair between his thumb and forefinger, and held it up to the light. A casual, infuriatingly casual inspection.
“Oh. That is from Nikolai,” he said, dropping it into a small trash bin by the desk.
“Nikolai,” Jennie repeated, the name a foreign stone on her tongue.
“Big Ukrainian guy from dish pit. Helped me carry this fucking sofa up from the curb last week. His sister is some…hair model. It was all over his clothes.” Leonid shook his head, a faint, annoyed smile on his lips. “Guy sheds worse than a cat.”
Relief was supposed to flood her. It didn’t. It pooled, cold and suspicious, in her gut. It was too neat. An easy explanation. A male coworker. She watched his hands as he popped the lid on the food container, his rings clicking against the glass. He wasn’t lying. He didn’t have the tell—the slight tension in his jaw, the quick glance away. He believed what he was saying.
But what if the blonde hair model sister had been here, too? What if she’d touched his things, laughed in this room, imagined him on that bed?
“You should thank him,” Jennie said, her voice still a gentle hum. She stirred the stew she’d brought, the red broth swirling. “For helping you. I could bring cookies to the restaurant. For everyone.” The idea took root instantly, glowing with dark potential. “I’d love to see where you work. To meet the people you talk about.”
Leonid looked up from where he was digging for a spoon. He shrugged. “Is boring place. And loud. You would not like it.”
“But I’d like to see you there,” she pressed, tilting her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. The perfect girlfriend, supportive, interested. “Please? I’ll just stop by. Maybe for a coffee. Tomorrow, during your shift?”
He held her gaze for a moment, and she willed every molecule of herself to project harmless, doting love. He sighed, a soft capitulation. “Okay. Fine. But afternoon, before dinner rush. Is less crazy.”
She beamed, rounding the desk to wrap her arms around his waist, pressing her face into the back of his soft, worn t-shirt. “Thank you,” she murmured, inhaling the scent of him, trying to drown out the phantom smell of floral perfume and blonde hair.
He ate the stew, complimenting it, and she watched him with adoring eyes. But underneath the table, her thumb rubbed compulsively over the tip of her forefinger, where she could still feel, in her mind’s eye, the texture of that stolen strand of gold. Nikolai’s sister. A hair model.
She needed a name. A face. She needed to see the topography of his world outside these walls, to map every threat. The café girl had been a lesson in haste. This would be different. This would be a survey.
Later, as they lay tangled on his narrow bed, his heavy arm draped over her, she listened to his breathing even out. The streetlight from the window painted his face in harsh lines and deep shadows, making him look like a stranger. A beautiful, vulnerable stranger.
Her mind was already drafting the narrative. A friendly visit. Sweet Jennie, bringing treats. She would memorize every female face, every glance, every tone of voice used near him. She would be a ghost, observing, cataloging.
And if she found the blonde… well, the garden was always hungry. And roses, she knew, grew best when fed.