— I need a son! — Yaroslav bent a finger, listing the points of his plan. — Preferably in the first year, while age permits. The family line must continue, you understand, the Khomyakov name must not be broken.
Nelli stood up so abruptly that her water glass tipped over onto the snow-white tablecloth, spreading into an ugly puddle. She took three thousand from her purse and threw them onto the wet fabric.
— A word of advice for the future, Yaroslav Evgenievich! — she said, looking down at him from the height of her heels. — Hire a caregiver for your mother and contact a reproductive clinic. They’ll make you a son with all the modern technologies, and he’ll be professionally cared for. As for me, I think I’ll go, I still have a quarterly report to finish.
Outside, her phone vibrated in her pocket — her mother’s name flashed on the screen. Nelli rejected the call without a second thought and walked to her car, not watching where she was going and not noticing the puddles.
The “Pinta” beer restaurant in the city center greeted her with the buzz of dozens of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the thick smell of fried sausages. Nelli chose a table in the farthest corner, away from the noisy companies, ordered an unfiltered beer and a plate of cheese sticks, and then another beer and another, carefully not counting the empty bottles. Around her, groups of people were laughing, couples were holding hands, and she sat alone amidst this celebration of life, staring at the beer foam and thinking that maybe her mother was right after all, and she had really missed something important while chasing her career.
— Nelli Lvovna?
She lifted her heavy head and didn’t immediately recognize the man who had stopped at her table with a mug in his hands. Tikhon Ignatievich Bazhenov, the cook from the “Titan” holding company’s cafeteria. 55 years old, graying temples, a calm gaze from gray eyes, and hands with the ingrained marks of years of kitchen work, calluses from knives, and small scars from burns.
— May I sit? — he nodded at the empty chair opposite her.
— Sit down, Tikhon Ignatievich, — Nelli waved her hand with drunken generosity. — Want to hear how a marketing director complains about her miserable life?
He sat down, pushed the empty bottles aside, and silently slid a glass of water toward her, which he had thoughtfully brought with him. Nelli didn’t remember later how long she spoke — maybe half an hour, maybe a full hour. She told him about her mother and her calls, about the endless series of humiliating dates, about Yaroslav with his plans for her life and the role of a caregiver, about the whispers of neighbors in her home village. About how all her achievements weren’t worth a damn without a stamp in her passport.
Tikhon listened in silence, not interrupting or offering unsolicited advice, only occasionally refilling her water. There was more understanding in his silence than in all the words of her friends.
— Are you married, Tikhon Ignatievich? — she suddenly asked when the words ran out.
— A widower. My wife passed away eight years ago….
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