The Einstein Equation

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Winter never scared Misha and his friends. In fact, they reveled in the fact that they could walk barefoot where tourists dared not even venture out of their hotel lobbies. It was a grand source of amusement for Misha to watch tourists, not only because their weakness for luxury and comfortable climes presenting him with much hilarity, but also because they paid. They paid well.

Many got their currencies confused in the heat of the moment, if only to get him to direct them to the best spots for a photo session or senseless reports on historical events that once plagued Belarus. That was when they overpaid him, and his friends were only too happy to share in the spoils when they congregated at the deserted railroad station after sunset.

Minsk was big enough to have its own criminal underground, both of an international caliber and of the petty variety. Nineteen-year old Misha was not a bad specimen, per se, but he did what he had to do to get through college. His lanky, blonde image was attractive, in an Eastern European sort of way, which garnered him enough attention from foreign visitors. Dark circles under his eyes spoke of late nights and malnourishment, but his striking pale blue eyes kept him handsome.

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