Fiction

Alexander Starostin

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Solomon Fray sat still at the empty table for a while, deflated. He heard the measured and quiet ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. The last rays of faint and reddish sunshine filtered in through the kitchen window. Then he abruptly stood up, took out a bottle of vodka and some lemon juice from a bar built into the opposite wall.  He mixed himself a drink, lit a cigarette between his lips and, with the  drink in his hand, went on to the veranda to catch some fresh air. Suddenly he loved the idyllic  spring atmosphere – chirping of birds and the mild coolness of the wind in the gathering twilight. He was thinking about his car. He never actually liked its colour. Maybe he could call the garage first thing tomorrow and ask them to give it a more decent coating of some other shade. And the endangered business deal with his partners was not lost yet. He knew how badly they needed his money. It would not be hard to twist them round his little finger. And in a day or two, he thought, he could even call his young sweet lady who missed him so, so much. Of that he was absolutely sure.

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