BORIS

Boris struggles with his complacency

"What are you doing up?"

Sashka, Boris's wife, is holding an empty cup in her hand as she stands in the entrance of the awning connecting their living room with their dining room. Boris's back is turned to Sashka but then he turns, revealing a confused face. He grips a frame in his hand and the painting on the wall next to him is taken down, revealing the secret vault. Sashka's eyes trail from the frame to the vault to Boris's eyes. That's not just any frame. That's the frame with the newspaper in it.

"What is wrong with me?"

Boris's words trouble Sashka. She walks into the living room and stands next to him. Together, they look at the faded piece of newspaper from the year 1996. So long ago. The heading on the newspaper says PASTOR OF CULT CHURCH SPEAKS OUT AGAINST GOVERNMENT.

Sashka takes the frame from Boris's hands and puts it back in the vault. Taking the painting which is set upon the sofa chair, she hangs it up, hiding the framed newspaper. Slowly, she turns and faces Boris. Taking his hands in hers, she leans in and kisses him on the mouth.

"You're a brave man," she tells him gently, resting her head against his chest.

He wraps his arms around her, to tell her he's okay. He doesn't want her to worry, but he's trembling inside. He knows there is something terribly wrong, terribly wrong with him. Terribly wrong with his city, his country. He's troubled at the state of affairs. Something needs to change. He sees it every time he goes outside. But he doesn't have the courage to do anything about it. Or maybe it's not that he doesn't have courage. Maybe it's just that he doesn't know what to do. How to change things, make them better for him and Sashka, for his family and friends. For his countrymen.

Maybe he needs to do what Georgi, his who-knows-how-great-grandfather, did. To find a public place, stand up, and begin to speak against the system. Maybe that's the first step he needs to take. Maybe that's what he will do. Maybe he will do it tomorrow morning at Endeka, where people mill about no matter what time of the day it is. Or maybe he should do it in front of the capitol. He doesn't know. He just knows he needs to do something.

"Go back to bed," he tells Sashka.

She looks up at him with such big beautiful brown eyes. For a moment, his fear, his troublesome heart, is calmed. He kisses her on the mouth. Whatever happens, Sashka is the person that gives him strength. When he's afraid, he will think of her. He will think of her lips on his and her slender arms about him.

"Come with me," she tells him. 

"I'll come shortly," he returns, smiling at her. 

It's not forced. It's hard not to smile at her, at her beauty. She gives him a look, saying with her eyes, "Are you sure it will be shortly?"

He nods, "I will."

Without another word, she turns and walks out of the living room, leaving through the second entrance they have. She closes the door to the entrance that separates the living room from the corridor. He watches her shadow on the other side of the glass door until it disappears. 

He walks across the living room to the window that overlooks the city. Not much except trees can be seen since their apartment is right next to the park. Boris props his hands upon the window ledge and stares down into the dark street below, which has only a few spots marked by the dull yellow lamplight of a few street lamps.

A taxi cab suddenly pulls up along the curb. It stops right in the lamplight. It sits there for a moment before a woman with dark hair steps out, followed by a small child. She shuts the door, waves to the unseen driver, and walks toward his apartment, disappearing from view. 

As the taxi drives off, Boris sighs. He wrests his forehead against the cold window. It's been a cool spring. It's almost summer and it still feels like the chills of winter haven't quite left.

A gunshot. Boris jerks his head up and listens, his heart pounding. It was so close, too close. It was outside. He's sure of it. He listens, stone still, but the gunshot is not repeated. 

Suddenly worried about Sashka, he hurries through the living room. As he opens the door, he hears the elevator going up. He shuts the door to the living room and walks through the corridor. Reaching his bedroom, he goes inside and shuts the door quietly. 

Sashka stirs, sits up on one elbow. 

"I heard a gunshot," she whispers into the darkness. 

"It's nothing," he says, climbing into bed. 

He lies down, pulling her down with him and wresting his arm over her to protect her, but from what, he doesn't know. She strokes his black hair.

"You okay now?" she asks him.

"Yeah," he whispers back. 

And he is. Because he's going to do something. He's not going to sit around silently anymore.

Stillness envelopes him, and he's sure she's fallen off to sleep when their doorbell buzzes, loud and unwelcoming. Boris jerks his body upward and flips the quilt off his body. Sashka is sitting upright, too. 

"Who could that be?" she wonders aloud.

But Boris barely hears her. He's already in the corridor, hurrying to the door. They have two, a wooden one with a bolt on the inside and a metal one with a peephole. He unbolts the innermost door and flips the little flap covering the peephole. Looking out, he sees a woman with a small child standing outside his door. 

It's the woman from the taxi.