the mid-afternoon heat suffocates, warrants an open buttoned shirt bereft
of a jacket; beneath a veneer of manicured ease, solo is restless for it. illya
had joined him on the balcony an hour past, thrifty with words as he is a
smile - silence is not par to solitude, && it only serves to detract from a
conscious effort to relax.
he bites, bored fish to stoic, irritating bait; fingers tighten, front page of his
newspaper whispering as it folds. a bolded B ( RUSSIA HAS ATOMIC
BOMB! ) of the headline dips to greet a cartoon he might be shot for
reading on a certain side of a certain wall.
❝ comrade, i’m compelled to tell you you’re nothing short
of a pain to live with. ❞