Lera approached one, an image of the Holy Mother, silent pain in her flat painted eyes.
Both liked to take a misanthropic posture, but against what, Lera could never guess.
Lera stared out at the activity on Bolshaya Cherkizovskaya, where the traffic never ended.
At the gate, Lera looked for Grisha among the people holding bouquets and spied his head.
Within three months, Lera had sold the Dobbs Ferry house with its view of the Hudson.
She covered her mouth when she saw Lera on the platform of the Ohotny Ryad metro.
Lera sat down and slid her hand across the table, touching his arm.
The gold tooth Lera remembered in the corner of her smile was gone.
Or had he left the book here in order to savor the inscription, certain that Lera would never open it?
In the stillness, Lera could hear the guttural cawing of a crow.
For a con, it certainly seemed like a full-time job, Lera thought.
It was like the stray dogs Lera had suddenly noticed all over the city, trotting around the market, lying curled up beside the heating vents in the metro underpasses.
At the get-togethers that Lera and Grisha attended, Lera would often see her husband off in a corner, rattling his drink and talking with someone about the moribund state of American culture, the absence of any real spirituality here.
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