I catch her elbow before she steps off the curb without looking. “Careful.”
“I am careful.”
“You nearly walked into traffic.”
“It was very slow traffic.”
“It was a car.”
“It was barely committed to being a car.” She pulls free with a grin and crosses when I let her, hurrying just enough that the hem of her coat swings around her knees.
I follow.
The performance is simple. Street music, a little dancing, a few tricks for tourists. Nothing I would usually stop for. The accordion player is wrapped in a thick scarf, fingers moving fast despite the cold. The violinist plays with his eyes half-closed. The woman in red spins once, laughing when a little girl tries to copy her and almost slips.
Katerina watches as if she has been handed a front-row seat at the Bolshoi.
Her delight is unguarded. It changes her face more than makeup or jewels ever could.
I take out my phone before I think better of it.
She does not notice at first. She’s too busy watching the dancer, her lips parted, one hand tucked into my scarf at her throat. A snowflake lands on her lashes, and she blinks it away, smiling.
I take the picture.
The shutter sound gives me away.
Katerina turns. “Did you just take my picture?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because you looked happy. Because I wanted proof. Because a woman smiling in the snow should not feel more dangerous than a meeting with Oleg Voronin, and yet here we are.
I put the phone away. “For evidence.”
“Of what?”
“That you’re capable of enjoying yourself without arguing.”
Her mouth falls open. “I enjoy myself while arguing.”
“I have noticed.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Roman.”
“No.”
“You cannot take a picture of me and refuse to show me.”
“I can.”
“That’s illegal.”
