Re: [Samover: Sam & Svetlana]
Gossip here was slow-drip poison. It was women who smiled over coffee as they twisted knife, women who batted eyelashes at husbands and talked behind hands of which man went to trailer park - all the time damning girls in trailer park who opened legs for cash, who had no homes to compete over, no children to dress in Sunday clothes and photograph. Gossip here, it was not currency to head of family. It would kill no one, it was threat itself, eh? It was not waiting for knife in the night.
Svetlana thought Sam crazy, eh? She thought her crazy because sanity was tupperware and coffee mornings, it was house in neighborhood and old, fat husband who did not listen when you spoke. And crazy girl, she was covered in paint. But Svetlana, she had stabbed her husband in the shoulder and sold out criminal gang to cops who had not been fast enough to save anyone. Crazy, eh? The logic, it made business sense and Svetlana did not move when blond girl left on butter-yellow boots. She curled her toes into the seam of her thigh, she sipped strong black tea. She stared at woman who stared into window, unblinking like cat.
She said nothing when Sam returned. Why would she, eh? Girl was sister to baker, girl was sister to antique seller, who sold dusty things that were old and had no marketable value Svetlana could see. They were old and she liked new. Fresh from packet or from box. Tea-cup in her fingers was new and it was banded in gold. She let the canvas get dragged out, the easel set up in path of chairs. It was inconvenience, but customers came for strong Russian, unhelpful service and inconvenience along with strong, good tea and pastries. She flexed her foot, examined her tea.
"Why is fucked up? People in small town drink tea." This was flat. American curiosity, it was obvious. It curled up at end of voice, uncertain. Svetlana, she was not uncertain and her voice did not suggest this was question, even if it was. "I do not give a shit." This for the baker. "She is stupid."