He used to talk to me about Russia all the time and had sworn up and down that I'd love it here. "To you, it'd be like a fairy tale," he'd told me.
"Sorry, comrade. Borg and out-of-date music aren't part of any happy ending I've ever imagined."
"Borscht, not borg. And I've seen your appetite. If you were hungry enough, you'd eat it."
"So starvation's necessary for this fairy tale to work out?
