I got a job as a security guard at a construction site the summer after my second year. The pay wasn't great, but the work was easy: sit in a trailer, patrol the area twice a night, and make sure cables and tools weren't stolen. The site was secluded, behind garages, with not a soul around. It suited me—I was reading a lot back then, and here it was quiet. The woman showed up a week later. Her name was Lyuda. She worked as a crane operator, but the crane at that site hadn't been installed yet, so she was assigned to work as a storekeeper—handing out gloves, hard hats, and nails. She lived right there, in a trailer next to my trailer. She was about thirty-five, maybe a little older. Not a beauty, but shapely: strong arms, a wide backside, large breasts, but not sagging, like dough in a pan—they rose when she laughed. She was cheerful and loud. She would come out in the evening in her robe, sit on the steps of the trailer, and smoke, looking at me. I would pretend to read. She would ask what book it was, I would answer, she would nod and say, "You're still young, but serious." I was flattered. Then it started raining. It was impossible to walk around the area; the clay stuck to my boots. I was sitting in my room, warming up tea on the stove. Lyuda knocked on the door and asked for salt. I gave it to her. She said, "Why are you sitting there alone? Come here, I have some soup." I went. She poured me a plate, poured herself some, and we ate in silence. Then she got out a bottle of wine, cheap and sweet. I drank with her because it was awkward to refuse. She was telling me about her life: she'd been married twice, both times they were jerks, no children. She spoke calmly, without tears. I listened. Then she said, "You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this. I'm just bored. You're a quiet guy, you won't run around the facility chatting." I nodded. When I got up to leave, she took my hand. Her hand was hot and dry. She said, "Stay." I stayed. She undressed me herself, as briskly as if she were wiping a shelf. I was shy, not knowing what to do with my hands. She lay on her back, spread her legs, and said, "Go ahead, just not like a rabbit, I won't run away." I lay down on top of her. It was hot and slippery inside her, and I came in about two minutes. She laughed, but not offensively. She said, "It's okay, you'll learn." And I learned. Every night, when the workers left, I went to her trailer. We hardly spoke. She showed me how it was done: slowly, then faster, from behind, on my side. Once she said: "Try it with your tongue, I won't eat you." I tried. She liked it when I licked her for a long time, and she held my hair and breathed heavily. I liked it too. I stopped thinking about anything else. All day I waited for the evening. She called me "my watchman." Sometimes, when I was patrolling the grounds, she would come out of the trailer, lift her robe, and show me her bare legs. Or she would just stand there, smoke, and watch me walk. I'd return from my patrol, and she'd be waiting for me without underwear. Then it came to light. I don't know who saw it. Maybe the guard on shift, maybe the workers figured it out—she wasn't exactly hiding, she'd come out of my sight in the morning with her hair disheveled. The foreman called me. He was an old man, red-faced and short of breath. He said, "You, student, get out of here. Payday is at the end of the week. And I don't want to see you here again." I asked why. He looked at me and said, "If you don't know how to fuck, then keep your head down. She's married; her husband was in prison, but he got out. Understood?" I didn't understand. That evening I went to see her. Lyuda was sitting on the steps with a cigarette. I walked over and sat down next to her. She said, "Go away. I'm not joking." I wanted to tell her that I couldn't, that I didn't care, but she got up and went into the trailer, closing the door. I stood there like a fool, listening to her rattling the dishes. Two days later, her husband arrived. I saw him from afar. His hair was cut short, his neck covered in tattoos. He didn't look at me, walked past my trailer as if I didn't exist. That evening, I heard them arguing. She was screaming, he was hitting her—I heard the blows, dull, like hitting a sack of potatoes. I went out. I went up to the trailer. I knocked on the door. He opened it. He looked me up and down. He said, "Get out of here while you're still in one piece." I left the next day. They gave me my pay in an envelope, and the foreman didn't even look at me. I picked up my backpack, took my jacket off the hook, and walked out the gate. I only looked back at the garages. The trailer was dark, only the window was lit. I thought: maybe she's there, smoking and watching me leave. Or maybe not. I never saw her again. Sometimes I remember how she breathed in my ear when I moved inside her, and how the trailer smelled of diesel fuel and cookies in the morning. And also how she said, "not like a rabbit." I never rushed things that much with other women after that. She taught me, even if it wasn't what she wanted.