After a few compulsory questions about her work in Leningrad, he grows silent for a minute, as though contemplating something important. When they said their goodbyes in Moscow, a month or so after her graduation, she thought it was a farewell. Their meetings in his apartment lasted as long as they did, and Sasha never planned to see him again, so sitting across from him in Leningrad now seems odd and out of place. His being two bus stops away from where she is working seems inappropriate, or maybe it is she who is inappropriate sitting in this hotel lobby, so close to a man for whom she is no longer able to muster even a semblance of affection, not one little tingle in her veins.

Sergey takes off his glasses and starts deliberately wiping them with a handkerchief, as if a great deal of what he is about to say depends on his clarity of vision. Without his glasses, his face appears even older and somehow more vulnerable; he looks like he is planning to reveal something she doesn’t know about him, something fragile that will make her want to protect him.

“I’ve realized something,” he begins in a small voice, as though afraid to warp the words with sound. “I hope you understand. It’s quite simple, really, so I hope . . .” His voice trails off, and he pauses to take a breath to start again.

“In these six months—and I counted each day—I’ve realized how much I miss you. I’ve realized that seeing you, being with you, was my happiest time.”

A nauseating sensation stirs in the pit of her stomach. The words Sergey is saying, is about to say, are beautiful and delicate, but to her, they only sound objectionable and distressing. They are the words that should be directed at someone else, someone who would appreciate their generosity, someone who would love this upcoming revelation and, by extension, love him. They are words completely wasted on her thick, impermeable skin.

Sergey must sense her tense posture implying rejection, but she guesses he wants to be certain, so he continues, racing to the crux of this encounter and the objective of his speech. “I’ve separated from my wife,” he says and swallows so hard, she can see his Adam’s apple move. “So now you and I can be together.”

Sasha can no longer look at him, his exposed face, his naked eyes. She lowers her gaze and peers at the red carpet under their feet, her head shaking slightly, delivering her answer.

He leans back, his body suddenly slackening and turning pliant, like a rag doll’s.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers and gets up. What else can she say? “I’m so sorry.”

His hand with a handkerchief rises to his face, and for the first time in the two years she’s known him, she sees tears glisten in his eyes.