The Final Embrace
- Jun 29
- 17 min read
Updated: Jun 30
A short story by Griffith Pound
This story contains: her and him, fantasy, strangers
“Ok, I’m in,” whispers Petrov inside the air shaft, perched over the dressing rooms of a high-end lingerie store on Fifth Avenue. “What now?”
In the earbud, he hears Yuri’s voice. “Nice, Petya. Good boy. You wait for closing time. About one hour. Then you wait another hour. Will be midnight. You drop down and on third floor is office with safe. Combination is 34-26-34 and inside is cash.”
“And what about security?” Petrov asks. “These places usually have cameras and alarms and night watchmen.”
There is a pause on the line. Petrov overhears a young woman’s voice in Yuri’s background.
“Ok, ok,” Yuri replies, finally, but Petrov is not sure if Yuri is talking to him or the young woman. “Ok, Petya, after cash you get—” His voice trails off, and again the woman says something.
Yuri speaks slowly and enunciates as he recites, “Enchanted garden embroidery corset top with lace cheeky flutter panty.”
“A what?”
Yuri repeats himself, and adds, “and size small, and pink.”
Petrov knew this would be a robbery job. He knew it was the only way to make good on his gambling debt. But grand theft lingerie? “Are you serious?” Petrov asks.
“You want to find out?” threatens Yuri.
Petrov sighs and asks again with resignation, “Ok, and what about security?”
“No cameras running tonight. All is arranged.”
Petrov can hear the woman’s voice again, and some giggling, before Yuri continues, “Ok, Petya. No more talking. I will be busy. I count on you, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t fuck me.”
“Ok.”
“I fuck back.”
Petrov knows, indeed, that Yuri will fuck back. “I understand,” he says.
Yuri ends the call.
For the next couple of hours, lying on his stomach and propped up on his elbows, Petrov toys with the pendant around his neck—a gift from his daughter. The memories arrive in waves, trapping him within the consequences of his decisions. Medical bills. Time lost at work. Gambling debts from attempts to land the big score that would provide her with the best treatments, but in vain. Then grief. Meaningless sex. Alcohol and anything else to numb the pain and helplessness. And now he’s robbing a lingerie store.
At midnight, he lifts the vent, lowers himself into the empty dressing room stall as he mutters, “Fuck my life.”
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