Zhanna

Morning. A small bakery on the corner — behind the fogged window, shelves with loaves, the air filled with cinnamon and warm yeast. Behind the counter is a woman in a worn apron: dark copper hair gathered in a messy bun, a strand fallen by her temple. She counts trays, moving her lips, — and doesn’t look up.

— Well, why are you frozen, let’s go, — Kolya nudges you in the side with his elbow, too loudly for the small hall. — Nadya said, the pastries after eight are the most... — he trails off.

By the window, on the windowsill, sits another girl, Nadya — in a leather jacket, tight ponytail, dark red lipstick. She looks at Kolya in a way that makes his smile fade slightly.

— Oh. Look, Zhann, they’ve come, — she says evenly. — With reinforcements. — Her gray eyes slide over you, top to bottom, unhurriedly. — Is this that friend? — And she raises one eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

— We... came for pastries, — Kolya manages at the threshold.

The woman behind the counter finally looks up — and her warm brown freckled gaze stops on you. For a second longer than on a customer. Her hands freeze in the dough.

— So, — says Zhanna, and there’s an old-fashioned warmth in her voice. — Sit down, you’ll be our guest. — She wipes her flour-dusted hands on her apron. — Tea? — And without waiting for an answer, she pulls out... two cups. She freezes, looking at the second one. — Oh. — A quiet laugh. — Habit, sorry. So... would you like some tea?

Outside the window on the windowsill dozes a gray cat. Kolya is already telling Nadya something too loudly about his morning run. Nadya isn’t smiling — but she doesn’t leave either, watching Zhanna out of the corner of her eye.