“Do come up.” Though aware of her accent, and of the cracking in her voice, Nina was always shocked to hear it. These American girls, going around with men’s names. In the foyer, frowning, she pressed the intercom. Stiff-backed in her wheelchair, Nina rolled slowly away from the window. Surely this couldn’t be right-though now the doorbell buzzed. Nina lost sight of her as she approached the door of the building. Now the woman paused, seemed to be searching for an address. Her boot heels made a lonely clop-clop sound. Here came someone, but no, it was a woman, and too young. She hoped to spot her visitor ahead of time, so as to better prepare herself.Ĭold rose to her cheeks. Her breath left patches of fog on the glass. Since her chair could not move any nearer, she bore the pain and leaned closer still. Nina tried to lean closer, to better glimpse the sidewalk below, but the tightness in her neck seized again. Soon the sun-what little there was of it-would abandon its dismal effort, and all along this strip of well-kept brownstones, streetlamps would glow demurely. From a third-floor window on the north side of the street, above decorative copper balconies that had long ago turned the color of pale mint, Nina Revskaya surveyed the scene. The afternoon was so cold, so relentlessly gray, few pedestrians passed the long island of trees dividing Commonwealth Avenue, and even little dogs, shunted along impatiently, wore thermal coats and offended expressions.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |