I remember Balaclava on Saturday mornings, going for bagels and
coffee, returning to the little flat to travel into Russia, where the old
soldiers have come home to be propped up in the corner of great literature.
Downstairs the resident agoraphobe was having a crisis, hers to reason why, not
to do, or die. It was bonecold June, I guess, when the rain freezes on concrete
and your mouth makes the cloud of life from thin air. Other flat-dwellers
shared self-exile a while out there in Crimea, working the week, going to bed
early, their overcoats hung on door hooks.
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