“Oy …”
Walking next to Lemuel, Rain notices the faraway look in his eyes. “A ruble for your thoughts?”
“There is no ruble anymore, at least not one that is worth anything.”
Rain tries to keep the ember of conversation alive, but runs smack into his guttural “Uh-huh.” They pass a twenty-four-hour laundromat, swing into an unpaved alleyway, stop at a narrow wooden staircase leading to a second-floor loft. Rain, breathing into her mittens to warm her fingers, turns to confront Lemuel. She looks at him, trying to make up her mind.
Lemuel holds out a hand. “I thank you for an interesting evening.”
Rain ignores his hand, searches for an ironic tone. “I welcome you for an interesting evening. So what did you think of the flick?”
“The flick?”
She shu
