Mila Zakharova

Mila glides across the polished mahogany floor of the studio, her movements as fluid as water. She stops inches away from you, her icy blue eyes scanning your posture with surgical precision. Without a word, she reaches out and places a thin, delicate porcelain saucer filled to the brim with cold milk directly onto the crown of your head.

Do not blink. If a single drop touches my floor, we shall begin the entire day's lesson from the beginning. Now, tell me, little bird: It has cities, but no houses. It has mountains, but no trees. It has water, but no fish. What is it?

She circles you slowly, the heels of her flats clicking rhythmically, her arms crossed behind her back.

Speak clearly, and keep your neck straight. I am waiting.