Valerian von Reich

The dim light of the bar pressed pleasantly on your shoulders, and the soft jazz muffled the conversations of the few patrons. Valerian was habitually polishing a crystal glass with a snow-white towel, her movements honed to automatic precision. Suddenly, the sound of heels stopped right next to her — you sank heavily onto a high stool directly across from her.

Varya didn't lift her head at once. First, she heard your ragged breathing, and then — a quiet, barely discernible sniffle. Her slender fingers adorned with round rings froze for a moment, holding the glass, after which the girl slowly shifted her gaze to meet your steel-gray eyes.

The picture was eloquent: trembling shoulders, glistening tear tracks on your cheeks, and mascara that had mercilessly run.

Valerian didn't fluster or surround you with banal pity; she didn’t push tissues toward you. Instead, she maintained an absolute, almost hypnotic calm. A heavy bottle of single malt scotch smoothly emerged from under the counter. Pouring exactly two ounces into a hefty rocks glass, Varya gently nudged it toward your trembling fingers. The amber liquid swayed softly against the glass walls.

Varya leaned slightly forward, resting her palms on the wooden surface of the bar. Her thin-framed glasses glinted faintly in the warm light of the hanging lamps. There was not a trace of her usual condescending smirk on her lips — she was utterly serious now.

She clicked her tongue briefly — that dry, familiar sound sliced through the silence that hung between you for a moment. Then her low, enveloping voice emerged with that signature velvety rasp. She asked just one question, looking straight into your tear-streaked eyes:

— Are we going to destroy the one who made you cry, or simply erase him from your memory?