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SEAN
Isat at the restaurant, waiting for my middle brother, Damian, his girlfriend Lara, and her three friends. It was Lara's birthday, so here I was, in the dining room filled with animal heads and cuckoo clocks while everyone else was running on time, most likely. I arrived too early.
The door swung open, allowing a petite brunette in, and my mouth watered for something other than food. Damn. She made scrub pants look good. And she looked hangry, like she could crush the world under her foot and eat it. She must've just gotten out of work.
"Hi," she said. “Sean, right?”
“Yes. And you must be Vera,” I guessed since Vera was the only one of Lara’s friends working in the medical field.
“What are you, the CIA?” She sat under the bear's head mounted on the wall.
I smirked. “Depends. Do you work for the KGB?"
"Yes, I do," Vera deadpanned. “I’m their exterminator.”
“Of infections?”
And Vera actually cracked a smile. The tiniest, barely visible smile.
"I thought Russians weren't allowed to smile."
"Laughter without a reason is a sign of a fool. Russians are no fools," she answered. "Besides, I'm Ukrainian."
Lara had told me her friends were Russian. “Sorry. My sources are unreliable.”
"Your sources are fine. The real problem is that you’re trying to use common sense to understand Russians," Vera said. "We transcend common sense."
"You just said you're Ukrainian," I reminded her.
"It doesn't mean I'm not Russian."
"You're screwing with me, aren't you?" I asked.
And again, one corner of her mouth lifted in the tiniest of smiles. Hell, yeah. One more point for me.
She gestured at the stack of menus lying next to me. "Give me one of those, and I'll try to play nice."
"We’re not waiting for the birthday girl?" I gave her one menu.
“I’m authorized to order for her.” Vera called the server over. "Hi, we'd like to order a pork shoulder, assorted sausages, potatoes with parmesan cheese, potatoes with mushrooms, spring salad, olivie, vareniki with mushrooms and potatoes…"
"Just give us everything on the menu," I interrupted her because that’s exactly where this was going.
"Everything?" the server asked.
"Don't mind him," Vera waved me off. "I mean, talk about men and their need to decide who gets to eat what. We'll take all the food you have on the menu and two pitchers of kampot. If anyone wants to drink something different, they're allowed to do so."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll have a coke."
"That stuff is terrible for you," Vera mumbled.
"Talk about women and their need to decide who gets to drink what," I answered.
Vera cracked another one of her barely-there smiles. "That's my professional advice. I'll send you the bill."
"We make our kampot ourselves from fresh apples and cherries," the server said. "No added sugar."
"Sounds very healthy. I'll try it." My eyes stayed on Vera, so I wouldn't miss the next smile.
