Rough Diamond

Rain and fog in a Far Eastern Russian city, an outdoor cafe, freshly squeezed carrot juice. They sat across from each other, and he found her pretty as she sipped through the straw and shared her news. He admired her voice and her womanly manners; he was going down in her crystal blue eyes. Shots, explosions, and deaths under tricolor banners—now it all seemed as facts that he knew to be lies. He had only one eye left, yet it was still clear-sighted; though scars marred his face, they did give him more charm. He could see that his presence still kept her delighted, like the fact that he hadn't come to any worse harm. He was hungrily watching her soft facial features with her sharply defined, almost aquiline nose. And he hated all arrogant chic female creatures against whom she had little in store to expose. Tolerating all kinds of atmospheric precipitation, responding coolly to public opinion shifts, permitting by default the rude penetration, she just wouldn't accept any casual gifts. So he told her a story about a piece of war booty, how he fought hand-to-hand like a beast on the loose, how the enemy's death was fulfilling his duty, and she listened, transfixed, gazing over her juice. He reminded her much of her good, long-gone father, an airborne major, who was never in doubt; her feelings went far and they could go farther; she was only too weak not to let them all out. He took a rough diamond out of his pocket and placed it before her, saying, "It's yours." It resembled the eye from his empty socket and his ninety-nine emotional sores. She simply said, "Nice thing. I cannot ignore it. I'll keep it the way I took it from you, in my jewelry box, quite appropriate for it; I'll be gazing at it every time I feel blue." Then she finished her juice and drove him back home and stayed overnight with him just like before. By first light, they were gone into one dream to roam in the life they both cherished on the eve of the war.