She'd always known there was something wrong with her. Not in the dramatic, tragic way-just a quiet, persistent hum under the skin. It didn't bother her much. It simply was.
In that springtime, this wound had been unimaginable, this madness, but it...
-I saw the Patachon again.-Sofiya said whilst kicking off her high heels and untying her hair from its messy updo.
-What Patachon?-Anastasiya raised her eyebrow as she laid on a sofa, her legs dangling from the armrest.
-From the wine garden, remember?-she sat down next to Anastasiya, handed her a brush, and she brushed her dark hair smooth.-The grinning Pan, cloven hooves peeping out from under his pants?
Anastasiya could see the two of them in the round mirror on the wall, their long hair down, their azure eyes. Slavic women. When she saw them like this, she could almost remember fishing in cold deep seas, the smell of cod, the charcoal of their fires, their felt boots and their strange alphabet, runes like sticks, a language like the ploughing of fields.
-He stared at me the entire time.-she continued.-Mark Kegan. Lorraine says he's a writer of personal essays.-her lips turned into long commas of disapproval.-He was with that actress from Dynasty of Deception, Olivia Harris. With that fat Patachon of a man. Can you imagine?
Anastasiya knew she couldn't. Beauty was her mother's law, her religion. You could do anything you wanted, as long as you were beautiful, as long as you did things beautifully. If you weren't, you just didn't exist. She had drummed it into her head since she was small. Although Anastasiya had noticed by now that reality didn't always conform to her mother's ideas.
-Maybe she likes him.-Anastasiya said.
-She must be insane.-Sofiya said, taking the brush away from Anastasiya and brushing her hair now, bearing down on the scalp hard.-Who was this redhead in Venice? He was following you around like a puppy dog.-she abruptly switched the topic of conversation, eyeing her daughter through the reflection in the mirror, and Anastasiya's heart kicked hard against her ribs, a sucker-punch she hadn't seen coming.
-I don't know.-she mumbled.-He's Duff's friend.
-Men.-Sofiya laughed.-No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy.
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Yet Mark Kegan was the one who came home with them one night. Anastasiya laid on her mattress on the screen porch, and waited for him to leave. She watched the blue of the evening turn velvet, indigo lingering like an unspoken hope, while her mother and Mark murmured on the other side of the screens. Incense perfumed the air, a special kind Sofiya bought in Little Tokyo, without any sweetness, expensive; it smelled of wood and green tea.
Days passed like boats waiting to sail into the starless dawn, and Anastasiya was full of aimless endless darkness. It dawned on her she had spent her entire life waiting for something better. It'll be better when I start high school. After graduation, things will improve. Once I move out, everything will finally fall into place. Every week waiting for Friday. Every month and year waiting for the next. Her entire life was waiting for it to end. She was no longer sure whether she needed a pack of Xanax, three months of sleep or maybe getting hit by a car. Anything to banish that inertia. Yet, at the end of the day, she revolved with the earth, on which is so much beauty, so many interesting people, so much to see and read. However, all she could feel was this impending doom.
