And I lay, light-headed, half in the sun and half in the shade, while the berezki rustled between the raw concrete and the yellow tiles. And I slept so softly, a sleep as soft as the touch of skin under the apples of Kolomenskaya, and all you’re left with is the distant croak of the ambulances stuck on Prospekt Andropova and the muffled thump of apples falling, and the babushka getting undressed and lying in the sun with her headphones on.
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