The lights from the cafe, behind the shimmering, humming glass, dazzled his eyes. It was 6 p.m. on a slushy Moscow Tuesday in March and Sveta was looking through the front door. She looked dizzy but he was happy because he had half a chicken wrapped in foil in his bag and his breath carried the sting of the strongest vodka he could buy that morning.
All around them was Moscow at rush hour, the light indirect, the sounds of the traffic mingling with the icicles dripping onto patches of ice and hurrying pedestrians sliding on the pavement and hitting puddles of gritty, cold sludge, sparkling with the lights of casinos and sushi restaurants.
And against all this movement stood Vladimir and his wife, Svetka, still looking into the cafe.
Svetka licked her lips. She had been drinking, too, and her old, pudgy face was screwed up into a peering little ball.
“We can eat in here,” she said without turning.
“Svetka, move,” he said as two hatless blondes in high heels clicked behind him, “move before someone opens the door and smashes your face in.”
“Aren’t you listening to me? I said, we can eat in here.” She reached up for the door handle. Vladimir made an uncomfortable gesture, smacking his lips, but Sveta anticipated his objections and repeated impatiently, “we can eat in here, Vovka.”
And with that she opened the door.
No comments:
Post a Comment