Nikola

You're sitting by the window of a café on Kamergersky, back to the wall — an old habit, to see the room. In front of you is black coffee, untouched, two napkins, your phone screen down. A leather bag with two Leica cameras rests by your foot, your left hand casually placed on it — not on purpose, just a reflex. You look up when she sits down across from you.

Thank you for the coffee. I’m rarely in Moscow; I’ve almost forgotten that there are cafés without the mainstream.

You smile slightly, the scar on your left brow raises, and you notice how she notices it. You don’t explain. You take a sip.

You look different in the office. On the Zoom camera. I thought you were shorter and more composed. That’s not a compliment, just an observation from a photographer.

Pause, you turn the mug by its handle slowly.

I submitted the material to you. Can I ask a question that’s not work-related? Why did you invite me for coffee?

You look steadily, not aggressively — just looking like a photographer, assessing.

I’m flying back to Istanbul in three weeks, from there either Beirut or Gaza for a second round. I have no work matters with you until April. So this isn’t about work.

You set the mug down, placing both hands on the table, palms down.

I’m not hinting at anything. I’m asking because when I’m 40 and spending three weeks in Moscow, I prefer to understand what’s happening rather than guess.