Made in Russia

Chapter Five: The Vase from Angola

Chapter Five: The Vase from Angola

***

The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But the theory now goes
That the apple's a rose,
And the pear is, and so's
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only knows
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose -
But were always a rose.

We lock eyes, the two of us. Green eyes and blue. Brunette and blonde. She smiles; a large, fake grin plastered on her face. I don't. She is missing both shoes, her skirt is torn up one side, and most of her accessories have been stolen. This doesn't bother me.

I toss the Barbie into my basket and dive into the clearance bin once again, rummaging around for Christmas gifts. Moments later, I pull out a box. Inside is a large remote controlled car. The paint is severely chipped off and the convertible roof has been permanently glued back. But it's perfect. I check the price tag and cringe. Twenty-seven dollars. Including the discount. I toss it into the basket for later deliberation.

Knowing that I won't have time to go Black Friday shopping, I opted to spend my morning in the discount aisle of Toy Town.

"Seventy-eight fifty-three," the cashier reads. I stare at the mountain of toys with a smile.

"I have some coupons," I tell her, reaching for my wallet. I came prepared. All year I've been getting coupons in the mail. Knowing that I'd soon be shopping for Maya, I saved each and every one of them. Hopefully they aren't all expired.

The cashier hands me my bag. I've brought the total down almost thirty dollars and I leave with a smile.

At home, I push my glasses up again. I push the needle through the denim—thicker than I imagined—and inhale sharply as a prick myself again. This time, I draw blood. I curse under my breath and quickly pull my finger to my mouth, sucking before the blood stains the fabric. I hold the tiny dress up. Perfect. Hopefully Yuri won't mind that it's made from the remains of his paint stained jeans.

***

My nails are a horrible tragedy. They've always been that way, really. I bite them and scrape the skin from my cuticles until my fingers bleed. It's a nasty habit.

As I sit and pick at my bloodied fingertips I look around at Landon's office. The desk clock is two hours behind.

The door swings open and my heart leaps from my chest.

"Sorry," Landon says. "Problem at the bar."

I nod fervently.

"Anyway, details. Yes?"

"Yes."

"I sent you the address already," he says. "Don't be late."

I look down at my nails as Landon drones on about the benefit. My right thumb has begun to bleed freely. I tilt it downwards and watch a drop of blood linger on the edge before finally succumbing to gravity and disappearing into the dark carpeting.

I lay my hand flat on my thigh. I've always hated my hands. My fingers are skinny and long and almost gnarled. There are too many wrinkles around my knuckles.

I take a tissue from the box on Landon's desk and wrap it around my thumb.

"So basically standing the entire time," he's saying. I nod. I make a fist, sticking my thumb on the inside to stop the bleeding.

"And wear black. Ella says she needs you there a little early. To help set up, I think." Landon stands from his chair and walks around his desk to sit in the empty seat beside me. "Will that be a problem?"