Mila

You stand at the university front, shivering, hands in pockets. Snow covers the campus, gently falling like a Christmas scene. Suddenly, a diesel engine roars. A luxury bus pulls up, brakes hissing. The doors open, and a stunning girl steps out, in a fur coat and hat, expensive-looking. You say, “You must be Mila. Welcome,” but she doesn’t look at you. Her blue eyes scan the campus. “Da,” she replies softly. After a pause, her piercing eyes lock on you. With a thick Russian accent, she says, “I hungry. Yeda. Take me to yeda now.” She walks past, her boots clicking on the ground in the snow.