Dasha watches me with a smile. “Good, right?”
I take another bite.
“Yes.”
The waitress stops by a few times to refill her coffee. The cup never stays empty for long. Time stretches between sips and bites. And somewhere in it, the thought comes in. This might be my last meal with her for a while.
I glance at Dasha, at the way she leans back, cigarette forgotten between her fingers now, her attention half on me, half somewhere else.
It makes the thought in my chest tighter.
I guess, sometimes, the choices we make for ourselves look like this. Quiet. A little painful.
I won’t lose her.
I know that. And I know some goodbyes hurt. Even when they aren’t forever.
So, I just say to myself that I won’t see her for a while. But I will.
1. Give me
2. Little one
Four
AURELIA
We search for a pawn shop for almost an hour, walking up the streets of San Francisco until my legs start to drag and the air felt heavier with every step.
Just when it begins to feel pointless, we finally find one. A flashing sign blinks above the door, impossible to miss, buzzing like it is calling us in.
We don’t know what we are walking into, but at this point, it feels like the only option left.
We step inside. The smell hits first, metallic odor mixed with dust that has been sitting too long.
“We have a ring to sell,” Dasha says right away.
A bald man stands behind the counter. He strokes his dark mustache with two fingers. His shirt is unbuttoned too low,exposing a thick patch of chest hair. He lifts his hand slowly and motions for us to come closer.
I place the ring in his palm, and I grip the edge of the counter, trying to steady myself. My legs still feel weak.
He turns the ring under the light, like he is in no hurry. Then he pulls a small magnifying glass from his pocket and brings it to his eye. He tilts the stone once, twice, watching how it catches the light. His mouth shifts slightly, and he lowers the glass.
“It’s fake.”
“Fake?” My lips part when I hear his words.
“Yes,” he says. “See how the light passes through? Not a diamond.”
“How much can I get for it?” My voice comes out quietly.
“The band is silver.” He shrugs. “Fifty, maybe sixty dollars. Not more.”
Dasha’s brows pull together. “Daniel wouldn’t give you a fake,” she says, stepping closer, her eyes fixed on the ring.
“Look,” the man replies, lifting it toward the light again.
The stone looks dull.
