About how she used to look at photographs of Moscow in winter and imagine the cold would feel cleaner there. About how she bought a ridiculous fur-lined hat she left upstairs because it would not fit into the overnight bag. About how she has never seen snow except in films.
“You have never seen snow?” I ask.
She shakes her head, then points a finger at me. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re laughing inside.”
“No,” I say. “Inside, I’m deeply serious.”
This makes her laugh again.
The lounge seems to change around it.
Or maybe I do.
Her cheeks are flushed now. Her eyes brighter. She leans forward when she speaks, forgets to guard her expressions, forgets to pretend she’s not wounded.
“You look very Russian,” she tells me.
“I’m Russian. But I grew up in the States.”
“No, I mean...” She gestures vaguely at me. “Extremely Russian.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like you own a forest.”
I stare at her. She stares back.
Then she covers her mouth, horrified. “I don’t know why I said that.”
I almost smile. “Neither do I.”
“You do, though,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You look like you own things. Forests. Buildings. Men.”
That last word sobers me more than it does her.
I take the remaining vodka from her glass and move it to my side of the table.
She watches me. “Rude.”
“You’re finished.”
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like bossy men.”
“No?”
Her mouth opens. Then closes. The color in her cheeks deepens. She looks away first.
Thank God.
The boarding announcement saves us both. When our flight is called, she stands too quickly, and the floor betrays her.
