“Is everything all right?”
“Everything is perfect, actually.” I folded over my paper. “How’s the baby? The wife?”
“Always crying,” Kostya groaned, taking an exasperated gulp from his morning beer. “Bothof them.”
“Ah ...” I sipped my coffee. “So, nothing new?”
“I suppose.” Kostya sighed, leaning in his seat and anxiously tipping back the chair. “I’m awful, aren’t I?”
“Why would you say that?” I raised a brow, setting my paper down. It seemed the complaint was his way of opening a conversation.
We sat at the café’s outdoor tables, early enough that we had our choice of seating and Konstantin could make it to work on time. He tells his wife that his shift starts two hours earlier than it actually does so he can find some peace and quiet.
“I love my wife, and my daughter, they are the most precious things in my life,” he started.
“But?”
“ButI am exhausted. I am awake all through the night helping Emily, I pull longer shifts for peace and quiet—dead men don’t cry! Thank Christ!” He pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a breath to calm himself. “I feel like I am constantly awake, riddled with anxiety in my waking hours as well as my sleeping ones, if you can call that sleep.”
“You’ll be fine, infants grow fast. How is Emily?”
“She is phenomenal with the baby, I don’t know how she does it.”
“I meant recovery.”
“Oh? Yes, she is fine. A bit weak, but that’s expected.”
I nodded, hoping it would be the last of his complaints. Kostya hadn’t been the same since the birth of his daughter. It could be sleep deprivation. It could also be the nature of his work.
Kostya worked as a deputy coroner. He saw many terrible things, and those sights tended to project when you cared about others who would one day, eventually, be on the table as well.
“You aren’t too far behind, you know.” He gave a light chuckle, smoothing down his neatly groomed mustache. “How are you and the new Mrs. Kameneva?” He put extra emphasis on the feminine-ending vowel.
“She’s fine.” I forced a smile. “Her couch is more comfortable than the mattress on my studio floor.”
He stared blankly at me, frowning when he realized I wasn’t attempting to be funny. “A couch, Arkasha? What in the world did you do to her to be cast out to the couch so quickly?”
“I didn’t have to do anything—we just talked.”
He dragged his palm over his eyes, then the rest of the way over his face with a groan. “You wouldn’t know how to swing a cat, dear friend. You are lucky to be born with looks, at least.”
“I make my own luck.”
“Ah yes, can’t forget about that stubborn ego.” He clicked his tongue.
I rolled my eyes and finished my drink, then set the cup down. I picked up my paper again but found myself only able to stare at the underlined ink at the top of the page.
An entire section in the newspaper for people who may not even be missing. I wondered how long it would take for the search to end and police to announce they’re gone, suspected dead—or worse, used as scapegoats for miscellaneous cold pursuits so authorities can say they’ve saved the day.
Would someone look for me if I disappeared? No.
If my wife disappeared? Without a doubt in my mind.
Something about it tickled the back of my head. My thoughts have gathered a new pace lately, between my environment and my new union, new home. They’ve opened my eyes to some things, to alternate lives and social classes that I thought I understood. My new muse may end up teaching me things I never thought to learn.
There are muses for all who dare to feel.
Chapter Four
