He slid into the passenger seat, folding the umbrella before closing the door. The gray lady was smoking a Marlboro, her eyes closed. Reno sat there in silence, checking his watch. She eventually clamped the
cigarette between her teeth and started the car.
“You never asked me what my name was.”
“I’m sorry, I never-“
“Oh, don’t start apologizing like you’re actually sorry. Go ahead and say that I was a curt asshole.”
“I… you weren’t… I never…”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. My name’s Malkova. Grow a pair, will you?”
Malkova pulled the car out of the parking spot with gusto, and Reno jerked in his seat. He didn’t have
much to say as the car sped down the 4 lane road. They passed building blocks that housed a variety of stores,
rooms, and diners. At 5:49 P.M. downtown Brooklyn looked beautiful. Reno tapped his fingers on the dashboard, waiting for the short ride to the apartment to end, but in the end found that the silence was overbearing.
He decided to be the one to break it.
“So, you’re Russian?”
“Well, I wonder what gave it away,” Malkova replied dryly.
“How long have you been in New York?” Reno stopped tapping.
“I’m 67, sonny. I don’t remember anything like that.” Not once her eyes wandered off the road.
Reno couldn’t think of anything more to say, so he played with his Zippo lighter as they pulled into
the parking lot.
“What are you waiting for? Get out and escort me,” Malkova burst out.
Reno stepped out and unfolded the umbrella. The rain had turned into a drizzle now, but Reno took the
gigantic groceries out of the trunk, and opened the driver side door. He walked her up the steps into the lobby
of the building, and then they entered the elevator together, the groceries pressing up against his face. She
stopped on the second floor.
Following her out, Reno waited as she opened her rickety door with a small key she produced from
her purse.
“You know, you’re lucky I was out shopping today. I don’t usually need to shop for groceries.”
Reno smiled, and Malkova opened the door and ushered him in. The room was simply furnished but
with good taste; worn oak tables and chairs sat in the kitchen, and the adjoining living room had an ostentatiously decorated carpet and aging but rich furniture. The walls were adorned with old Eastern European
artwork and writings, and an adequate television sat against the wall.
“Set my bag on that countertop over there. I’ll handle the rest myself.”
The kitchen was past the living room. Reno hastily shook off his shoes (Malkova was already barefoot) and walked through the decorations. He hastily set the groceries down on the counter top and turned to
say good bye, but his voice was cut short.
There was a girl sleeping on the couch.
Well, to call her a girl wouldn’t be fair. She was about as old as Reno was; worn circles under
the eyes along with a maturity about her dispelled any notions of youth. She had on a faded t shirt
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