— Well, I remember him.
— The surgeon, about fifty years old. He’s been divorced for three years. A good man, doesn’t drink, works hard. Owns his own apartment, his children are grown up. He was asking about you.
Irina froze.
— What do you mean—asking?
— Well, he was interested. Said he’s noticed you for a while. Wants to get to know you better.
— Galina Vasilyevna, I’m not in the mood for that right now, — Irina waved her hands. — I just got divorced.
— It’s been three months already. You can’t be alone forever.
— We’ll see. I’m not ready yet.
But Galina Vasilyevna didn’t give up. She kept pushing, persuading, praising Sergey Ivanovich. He, in turn, started visiting the therapy department more often on various contrived pretexts. He would greet Irina, smile, and ask how she was doing.
He was a pleasant man. Tall, well-built, with graying hair. His eyes were intelligent and kind. He spoke quietly, politely. He wasn’t pushy, but he showed attention. One time, he brought her coffee:
— Here you go, Irina Petrovna. I see you’re tired.
— I had a night shift.
— Yes, it’s tough. Thank you, — she accepted the cup.
— If you need anything, just ask. Always happy to help.
And he left. Simple, without hints, without flirting. Irina drank her coffee and thought: maybe it really is time? Life goes on. You can’t live in the past forever, in resentment, in fear.
In early March, Sergey Ivanovich invited her to the movies. He said simply:
— Irina Petrovna, would you like to go see a film on Saturday? They say there’s a good comedy playing.
Irina thought about it. Say no or give it a try?
— Okay, — she decided. — Let’s go.
On Saturday, they met at the movie theater. Sergey Ivanovich was in casual clothes: jeans, a sweater, a jacket. Nothing special, but he looked neat, pleasant. He bought the tickets, popcorn, and led her into the theater. The film was indeed funny, lighthearted. Irina laughed, forgetting all her problems.
After the movie, they went to a café for tea. They talked about a little of everything: work, life, films.
— Have you been working at the hospital for a long time? — he asked.
— Twenty years now. My whole life has been spent there.
— It’s a tough job. Sometimes I look at the nurses and wonder: where do they get the strength? Doctors at least have better pay, status. But you all work for pennies.
— I’m used to it. It’s all I know how to do, — Irina smiled.
They talked for two hours. Easily, without tension. Sergey Ivanovich turned out to be an interesting conversationalist: well-read, well-traveled, with a passion for history. He told her about his trip to Georgia, the mountains, the ancient temples.
When they were saying goodbye at the metro, he said:
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