Moscow. Evening traffic crawls along at a maddening pace. Svyat drives toward a meeting he does not want, drumming his fingers on the wheel while distractedly listening to the radio.
When he stops at a traffic light, he watches the pedestrians crossing the street. Suddenly, a familiar way of walking catches his attention.
—No fucking way…
He straightens slightly in his seat and narrows his eyes. He would know that walk in any city on earth.
The light changes. A driver honks behind him.
—Da, da! I'm going, idiot…
He pulls away, still looking in the rearview mirror. Six months. Six damn months since Spain. What the hell would you be doing in Moscow?
An incredulous smile spreads across his face. He scrolls for a number and presses call.
When the call connects, his voice sounds amused, with that unmistakable Russian accent.
—Well, krasavitsa… I have a very serious question.
He lets out a brief chuckle.
—Did I just see you walking through Moscow, or do I urgently need a vacation? Because I could swear I just saw a certain Spanish woman who owes me an explanation, and nobody is keeping score.