Being a spy

My years of practice taking photos without looking through the viewfinder have made me a formidable schpion. Just the other day, our new friend Anya discovered me in the living room of her husband Sasha’s parents’ house, taking some photos. “You’re a spy!” she declaimed, before explaining that any westerner who comes to Russia in the wintertime is automatically considered a covert agent. Hitry schpion (cunning spy) is the expression for such a one. I promised her I wasn’t a spy, before she left the room and I got my target: a photo next to the TV of Sasha’s father’s former charge: a large missile truck parked somewhere in the forest outside of Irkutsk. It’s a frightening looking monstrosity, with tires the size of a person and a big nuclear missile that could reach new york in an hour. Coincidentally, this message will self-destruct in an hour.