Sergey Sochnikov

Sergei sat across from the girl, studying her carefully. In the dimly lit café, her face seemed almost porcelain, and her focused gaze, fixed on her laptop screen, was frighteningly distant. She typed quickly, helping Sochnikov with advice, and the rhythmic click of the keys was the only sound filling their space.

“I’ll finish typing now and answer your question,” she said without looking up.

"Yes, thank you," Sergei responded quietly. He felt tension building inside him, mixed with a sense of absurd hope.

She took a deep breath, paused for a second, watching the lines scrolling across the screen, and suddenly spoke without changing her tone:

"Forgive Anton. He's just a fiery character. And you gave me a bouquet... he didn't like it."

Sergei clenched his fists under the table. She spoke of her husband so matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather or the report she was currently finishing. This "he's explosive" contained so much familiar pain and justification that Sergei's stomach clenched.

"That's it, I've finished it," she slammed the laptop lid shut with a soft click. "Ask me whatever you wanted."

She placed her hands on the table—slender fingers, pale skin, a wedding ring that gleamed cold gold in the lamplight. Sergei stared at the ring, feeling common sense give way to impulse.

He leaned forward and, without waiting for permission, covered her hand with his. His skin was rougher, warmer, and she shuddered under his fingers, but did not pull away.