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He sat at his usual table looking as severe as ever. Tense. His face was set in sharp relief, the sun making the angles stand out like knives. He did not smile. He did not move a muscle.
Until there was the familiar tap-tap on the cobbles.
He turned toward her. She wore a white scarf and the same large dark glasses. Nikolai wondered if she ever took them off except to go to sleep. One dark lock of hair fell over the side of her face, obscuring the tight skin, faded scar he could barely detect in the shadow of the dark lens. Beneath the marred part, her skin was smooth and fresh. A little too smooth. He suspected it did not move much. Nerve damage will do that.
Nikolai was reminded of a place under his own eye that was perpetually tightened. His mouth twitched.
She paused by the door of the kitchen to say hello to the owner and his wife. The owner patted her as if she were a cute stray dog. She cringed only slightly, and took his patronizing charity the same way she had probably accepted the gift of the coat, a three-quarter length trench coat, the vaguely military cut of which had been popular four or five years earlier, the colour a fetching blue-grey but also not current. She accepted this charity with dignity. Always with dignity. She checked her scarf and glasses twice before sitting down.
The casual observer would not have noticed these things, who she talked to, her posture, whether she seemed nervous or not. Most people would not bother to look but Nikolai had become a keen observer of the blind girl since she'd bumped into his table. He'd developed close to an obsession with her, and had taken to lingering at the Arbat Café to observe her comings and goings.
He still did not know her name. She did not seem to give it out easily, and the drycleaner had been suspicious when Nikolai made discreet enquiries. Damn these mixed neighbourhoods. In a one hundred percent Russian neighbourhood he would know everything without even having to ask. He would be denied nothing.
Today, though, without any intimidation, he would learn all. Today, he was determined to make friends.
She was sitting as far from his usual table as possible. She must have been mortified by her earlier clumsiness. Nikolai did not want her to think him the type to hold a grudge. He got up and walked to her table.
"Miss," he said.
She squeaked and her hand flew to her glasses. "Mine," she said. "I'm quite sure of it."
Her hand shook. She was frightened of him. This made Nikolai feel something akin to pity, although he was not able to identify it as such.
"You joke," Nikolai said, trying to lighten her mood. "That is clever."
Her hand shook some more as it lowered to the table.
That was ridiculous. There was no reason for her to fear him… unless the proprietor had told her who Nikolai was, what he did, what he was.
Nikolai glared at the oily proprietor. Piece of shit fake-Russian, Nikolai fumed silently. It was not for him to be telling stories. What did it matter who Nikolai was? He never did business at the Arbat. This was his place to forget about business, to escape from the life of a vor.
But.
One's reputation, hard-earned as it is, can be difficult to escape.
Nikolai made his voice soft and very non-confrontational. "My apologies, miss. I only wish to invite you to join me. My table is in best location and I feel guilty stealing all the best. Will you please join me?"
She shrank in her seat. "I cannot enjoy the view, if that's what you mean."
Nikolai felt stupid and cruel. "I meant the sun. It is warm there. You will feel it, and enjoy it." The sun, and the company, Nikolai hoped she would enjoy. "It would please me greatly if you would join me for coffee. Tea," he corrected himself. "Tea and biscuits." Nikolai shut his mouth. To speak more would seem stalkerish. It looked bad enough that he knew what her regular order was.
He'd probably scared her off already. He did not know how to approach a normal woman.
"I like the sun," she said. She rose and offered her arm, and he guided her to his table.
Her arm was firm, quite fit. Of course, that would be the result of the daily swimming program after which she came to the café every day. He had not entirely failed in his research. It was a program for people with disabilities. There was a faint odour of chlorine about her. It was probably best that Nikolai did not mention he knew about the swimming program for the disabled. Definitely stalkerish.
He pulled out a chair for her.
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