András glanced at Niki, and she felt that perhaps this was a kind of silent apology.
But it wouldn’t be enough.
French toast and a shared intimate moment wasn’t enough to forgive. And perhaps this whole thing was pointless: the nostalgia, this night. All of it pointless.
“Niki,” András began, but he couldn’t go on, because her phone rang. Niki was angry, but she didn’t know at whom. At the caller, who disturbed the moment when András probably wanted to say something important to her? Or was she angry at herself, for letting her heart weaken… for wanting to listen to what András had to say?
“Good evening, Tamás,” Niki said irritably. It was her editor–in–chief. “What’s important enough to warrant a call at 10PM?”
“Is it possible that there’s a psycho lady living with your mother?” he a
