Eleven Years Earlier
“Can I try?”
I glance at Carina, who has an expectant hand already outstretched.
Her boldness amuses me enough to hand over the cigarette.
“Have you smoked before?” I phrase it as a question, although I’m certain of the answer. It’s obvious in the curious way she inspects the lit bit before her mouth closes over the opposite end.
She gives the stick a tentative suck that has my cock twitching.
Her eyes drop to my stiffening dick, and she starts to cough. Another puff, followed by more hacking, has the cigarette moving closer and closer to the rumpled sheets we’re lying on.
I pluck the cigarette out of her hand.
She has the audacity to appear annoyed. “Hey! I”—cough—“wasn’t finished with that.”
“You almost lit bed on fire. You were finished.”
Carina scoffs, reclining against the pillows with her arms crossed. I tap the cigarette against the rim of the glass of water beside the bed, watching flecks of ash float across the surface. Last summer, I smoked out on the balcony, watching a stranger sit by the pool, then struggle to survive in it. This September, she’s in bed beside me, trying to copy my vices.
I’m not sure what to make of it. What to make of her. I wasn’t anxious for her to leave after sex, which had never happened before. So, I started smoking, and she’s still here.
“Your cousin owns this place?”
While I was busy studying her, Carina has been appraising the bedroom. It’s fine, I guess. Lots of blue.
“Yes,” I lie.
“It’s really nice.”
I shrug, exhale more smoke, then snuff out the cigarette.
Her eyes linger on me, no longer looking around. “You’re not very talkative.”
“No,” I agree.
My English isn’t terrible, but I’m much more comfortable speaking Russian. When I converse with Americans, I normally let a weapon do most of the talking.
“How long are you visiting for?”
“Not sure.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Her voice is quieter now. If it wasn’t the two of us alone in here, it would be unintelligible.
I say nothing, just stare at her. I’d rather not lie again, yet the truth is problematic. She wouldn’t have ever seen me again, not unless I wanted to see her. It’s an urge I can’t rationalize—couldn’t shake—the desire to know what happened to the girl who’d nearly drowned, then determinedly paddled around the neighbors’ pool. If I told her the effort it took to stage the earlier encounter she thinks was a second coincidence, I doubt Carinawould be staring at me with the same content expression she’s wearing now.
“I realized …” Her eyes drift down my chest, a flash of pink coloring her cheeks as she admires my body. “I realized I don’t even know your last name.”
I tuck an arm behind my head, fingers flexing in the creases of the pillow. “Sokolov.”
I appraise her reaction carefully.
Carina nods, then reaches out, grabbing another cigarette out of the box I tossed aside. “Can I try again?”
I hand the lighter I always carry to her, allowing a small smile to slip free as I watch her carefully flick the flame.
“You’ve done that before,” I state.
