Part 1/4
Super Philosophy
“I have
to tell you something.” She sits up, halfway moving her body against the cool
wall in her bedroom. Even though the humidity has long worn off, she’s still
sweating. Lying next to her, Dima’s muscular legs are crossed, one elbow propping
his head against her pillow. Moving lazily in the in-between time of night and
morning, the pink paisley sheet hanging in Maggie’s window sways with the
summer breeze.
“Zdjat,
wait. Tell me after tea.” Dima’s voice starts low in his belly. A singer’s
voice, it drew her to him months ago.
“You know where the kitchen is.” Her
curt voice hides layers of confusion she’s been wrestling. Weeks ago, she would
have offered to make the tea. But that façade, that attentiveness, has worn off. “Do you want tea,” Dima asks, rolling
over and landing on top of her. Lips the color of an impatient in spring kiss
her nose four times. Ever cautious, Dima clings to peasant superstitions. Maggie turns her head from him, hoping he gets
the hint that she’s upset. The wall is bowed in places from a perpetual leak in
the roof.
“Koneshno.
And with sugar.”
“Horosho.”
Dima claps his hands, thick from years of manual labor, and smiles with his
eyes. Naked, he walks to the kitchen and starts to sing the same song he’s been
singing since January when the pair first met.
“Perestanesh
pyet!” Stop singing. “You can’t wake my brother.” From her bed, Maggie
watches Dima move through the kitchen, opening cupboards, filling the kettle. He
leans into the fridge and pulls cheese and berries.
“I
know you get hungry after sex,” he says, pale ass contrasting starkly from the
tan he’s earned working shirtless all summer on the roofs of opulent houses.
“No
seeir from Marina’s,” Dima asks.
Maggie
rolls her eyes. “Marina’s isn’t the only store in town,” she replies, walking
into the kitchen. The Russian market was a great place to pick up cultural
specific foods, but cheese is cheese.
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