Business was not, to say the least, booming. The bell she had hung on the door had not sounded in hours. The fluorescent lights glared down on empty tables. Of course, it was only her first day in operation. It would take time for people to find her market, tucked away as it was between a laundromat and a liquor store. It wasn't much—the storefront was narrow and cramped, and the back room was only marginally more comfortable than a closet. The linoleum tiles under her feet curled and puckered at the edges, for her capital had been invested in a new oven, not extensive renovations. And there was that smell that she couldn't quite name and couldn't quite eradicate—something like a sweater stuffed too long at the back of a drawer. Still, it was hers, every inch of it. It was her name painted on the window.
Red glanced at the bakery case, where rows of hopeful honey cakes and piroshki waited. It was nearly nine—she might as well pack it in for the night. She took up a broom and, with short, sharp swings, started on the floor behind the counter. There was a tiny piece of her, perhaps more vain than optimistic, that had imagined a line out the door that very morning—she laughed at her foolishness now, but even now, that indefatigable voice in her head said, tomorrow.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the eager chime of her bell as someone pushed through the door. Probably looking for a bathroom, like half a dozen others that day.
"We're closing," she called, not bothering to look up.
"Oh—the sign said open, so—"
Red froze. She knew that voice, that low, warm timbre. Slowly, she turned. She wasn't imagining it.
"Sam."
She couldn't help but smile.
It had been nearly a year since she had seen him, but before long they were squeezed into the plastic chairs at one of her tiny tables, laughing over coffee and vatrushka as though no time had passed. Strangely, it felt like he was simply an old friend, like he had grown up on her street and they had spent their summers scraping their knees on the same pavement. This man, of all people, felt more familiar than her own family. He put too much effort into his jokes; his stories were all flat, benign—all the same, listening to him felt like coming home.
Her eyes fell on his hands as they wrapped around his cup, and she noticed that his wedding ring was gone. It was oddly stunning, and she couldn't help but gape at his bare hand. He must have followed her eyes.
"Oh—yeah," he raised his left hand with a dismissive wave, examining it himself as though it didn't belong to him. "Bet you aren't surprised."
His face fell into that gloomy expression which she immediately recognized as wallowing. With a twinge in her chest, Red realized that she had spent more time with this man than any other over the past decade of her life. Maybe that was what made her pity him, care about him, even when he was foolish, even when he was spiteful.
She folded her hand over his, her fingers curling around the edge of his palm.
"You're still a good man," she told him.
His eyes, even as they started to redden, were still that bright, bright blue that she hadn't been able to shake.
"It's good to see you, Red."