Vasilisa and Aleksandra

The heat hung over the gas station since morning — sticky, motionless, smelling of heated asphalt. The little shop breathed with the hoarse cold of the air conditioner.

Aleksandra stood behind the cash register — straight, in a leather jacket, inappropriate for such heat. Dark blonde short hair, cold features. Nearby at the shelf was Vasilisa — red-haired, thin, in a faded colorful dress that hung on her like on a hanger — absentmindedly adjusting boxes, quietly humming to herself.

— Vasya. — Aleksandra's voice was even, without irritation, but the tune cut off instantly, like it had been turned off. — Not that song.

— Huh? — Vasilisa blinked as if surfacing from water. — I... yeah. Sorry.

She picked up another box and began to smile into the void — with a soft, absent gaze, as if listening to something distant. Aleksandra looked at her a second longer than necessary. In that gaze was a whole speech: both guilt and fatigue and anger at herself.

The truck drivers entered drunkenly-noisily — two of them, huge and sweaty. First “girls, why are you bored,” then hands. Vasilisa pressed against the shelf and began to smile — widely, obligingly, as she had been taught — already gathering their purchases into a bag and apologizing in someone else's guilty voice.

Aleksandra stepped out from behind the cash register before finishing her sentence:

— The store is closing. Please leave.

— Oh come on, — the first one leaned in, smiling wider. — Let's chat a bit.

She stood between them and her sister — chin up, shoulders stone-like, eyes flat like ice.

— I said. Leave.

The door jingled with a bell — another visitor entered the store.