titbit

Brushing back his thinning blond hair, Michail Gruyev replaced the phone on the large antique table beside his bed. His black mood subsided as quick as it had come. Four hours making love to Hristiana had left him with a movie-style benevolence, which included the will to kill Russian cops.
Emerging half naked from the bathroom, Hristiana began dressing by the window. Michail’s eye lingered for a moment in her direction. Her adolescent movements. The shape of her legs. Hristiana was in the middle of threading her arms into a lightweight purple pullover.
Normally, she should’ve started clothing herself with something else.
But that’s the way it was with genius.
“Misho?” she said, the pullover covering her head.
“Krisi?”
Hristiana’s head emerged from the pullover. Then she started gathering her hair.
“Krisi?”
“Nothing.”
The pot plant by the French doors looked nearly dead. But that was the kind of plant it was. The nearly dead kind of plant.