Allison left the shelter of her car reluctantly. On one hand, it was a relief not to have the steering wheel of her Corolla jammed into her breasts, but on the other hand the neighborhood looked downright dangerous.
She gingerly stepped over the soot blackened snowbank flanking the street and surveyed her surroundings. Allison always thought of the east part of town near the harbor as being industrial, so the factories behind her weren't surprising. But she never pictured anybody actually living out here. She consulted the note cards she kept with her and confirmed the address. 216 Wharf Avenue.
It matched the numbers on the miserable looking row house in front of her. Below that was a hand-painted sign tagged with graffiti but still legible. Well, the half of the sign not in Cyrillic characters was legible. It read: "Ulyana Ivanov, Specialty Tailoring." This was it. Allison walked up the crumbling concrete stoop and rang the doorbell.
And tentatively rang it again.
Again.
Nothing.
Allison's shoulders slumped and she turned back towards her car. It was stupid to have came all this way without calling first. No, it was stupid of her to be lured by silly rumors of a miracle worker. She'd just have to live with the backaches her oversized boobs caused until the reduction. A day that could never come soon enough.
She was about to climb over the snowbank when a voice from behind called to her.
"Come. Come in from the street. Neighborhood not so good."
She gingerly stepped over the soot blackened snowbank flanking the street and surveyed her surroundings. Allison always thought of the east part of town near the harbor as being industrial, so the factories behind her weren't surprising. But she never pictured anybody actually living out here. She consulted the note cards she kept with her and confirmed the address. 216 Wharf Avenue.
It matched the numbers on the miserable looking row house in front of her. Below that was a hand-painted sign tagged with graffiti but still legible. Well, the half of the sign not in Cyrillic characters was legible. It read: "Ulyana Ivanov, Specialty Tailoring." This was it. Allison walked up the crumbling concrete stoop and rang the doorbell.
And tentatively rang it again.
Again.
Nothing.
Allison's shoulders slumped and she turned back towards her car. It was stupid to have came all this way without calling first. No, it was stupid of her to be lured by silly rumors of a miracle worker. She'd just have to live with the backaches her oversized boobs caused until the reduction. A day that could never come soon enough.
She was about to climb over the snowbank when a voice from behind called to her.
"Come. Come in from the street. Neighborhood not so good."