Petrov lives quietly. He spends much of his free time in his studio apartment, contenting the good company of himself. He was self sufficient, since forming and maintaining relationships has always been risky business for him. Work for Umbrella provided more excitement than his life needed, so he sought solace in his personal life.
A plant is a perfect roommate for Petrov. Unobtrusive. Slow going. A decent listener. Added a splash of much needed color in the studio, too. The walls, like nearly every wall in nearly every apartment, was painted that particularly nauseating shade of Soulless Landlord Ivory.
There had been a seed of skepticism that she had gifted him a burden, but he came around when he found a spot for it.
The ceramic pot sits in a sunny window. It's a nook about big enough to fit a single chair. A bonus space. It ought to be used for utility - a dripping clothesline, or spartan shelves for storage even - but he was tormented by the idea of blocking the window view with anything unsightly. Instead, he'd been using it for birdwatching.
Well, Petrov tried to birdwatch. Bottles cut like cups hang on strings outside, sadly all the birdseed in them has been undisturbed.
There isn't enough interest to attract the attention of birds. In Moscow, people made and put up all manner of birdhouses made of impromptu materials. Old shoes filled with bread crumbs. Sewn together fabric scraps ravaged by a flock. Amateurish paintings on used containers hung from park trees, roosted by the local birds. People didn't do that here. So nothing ever came.
Petrov opens the window, letting a sigh out into the fresh air. He shared many such disappointed sounds; the blossoming bell petals listen. "Of course, you haven't any choice," Petrov once remarked. "Nothing worth seeing in this window today, except for you." And he swears now and forever that even a plant loves a compliment, for his reward came in the form of a hummingbird.
There was a need in him, one that's followed him from Russia, to solve any problem on his own. To find her again after so much time, prepared to ask for her help, it is like swallowing a stone. But he does, and the effort is heard in his voice, edging into worry. "One of the buds ... it has not yet opened. Is this ... normal, or should I be doing something else?"
