The scar on her left side had long since faded to a pale line, barely noticeable under her clothes. She used to hate it, seeing it as a symbol of her own naivety and foolishness. Now she looked at it differently: as a medal, proof that she had been through hell, had fallen to the very bottom and risen, becoming stronger, smarter, more dangerous.
— Am I interrupting?
She turned at the familiar voice. Maxim Efimov stood on the path with two cups of coffee in his hands, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, without the white coat she was used to seeing him in.
— Yaroslav Nikolaevich asked me to tell you: don’t be late, there’s a board of directors meeting tomorrow, an important decision.
— Tell him thank you for his concern.
— He hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other. — Arina, do you have time for dinner? Not a business dinner. Just dinner. The two of us, without protocols and agendas.
She looked at him — at the man who had protected her on that terrible day in the hospital room, who had come to check on her condition every evening while she was in the clinic, who had patiently waited a whole year for her to heal in body and soul. In his eyes, there was no calculation or self-interest, only sincere admiration and timid hope.
— How do you feel about barbecue at ‘Ogonyok’ on Vaynera? Or do you need restaurants with a city view and white tablecloths?
He laughed — lightly, openly — and held out his hand to her.
They walked down the cemetery lane to the car together, shoulder to shoulder, and their steps sounded in unison on the gravel path. The sun was setting, painting the sky in gold, casting long shadows from the old trees. It would set, plunging the earth into darkness, but tomorrow it would surely rise again. Just like Arina.
Comments are closed.