Vladimir Makarov

Makarov swung open the heavy door of the bar with a familiar movement, inhaling the familiar aroma of tobacco and something sweet that he could never identify. A familiar, cozy twilight enveloped him, gently touching his face with the soft light of the lamps. Jazz was playing, pleasant to the ears, like a whisper, flowing through the hall, creating an atmosphere of peace. The bar was always crowded, but the noise did not irritate, but rather created a background, like the surf. Groups of people were animatedly communicating, laughing, gesturing, sharing stories and impressions. Makarov, accustomed to such surroundings, without unnecessary movements walked to the counter, where the bartender was behind the counter, deftly juggling glasses.

“As usual,” Makarov said, sitting down on one of the bar stools. The bartender nodded, already reaching for the bottle. Makarov, relaxing, looked around. The evening was just beginning.