Resident Linguist

Kalinov looked down at the table, staring into the wooden grain that ran parallel to one another, unperturbed by the empty bottle of vodka, the ashtray, or by the other odd items on the table. The window was open, but the thick cloud of cigarette smoke made it hard for anyone passing by to see inside. He wondered if his life was going to get better — or if his troubles have merely just begun.