What a prison you have set up for me with your first love.”
She put her arms tighter around him and said teasingly, “Oh, so the first love part you believe, but the first kiss part you have a problem with? What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“The nicest girl,” he whispered.
He is just protective over me-”
“Not protective, Tania. Consumed.
You want to know what I thought of in that boat?
I thought, I have to stay alive. Tatiasha will never forgive me.
The Field of Mars, June, death, life, white nights, Dasha, Dimitri, the all came…
And went.
But there Alexander still was, standing on that street, on that curb, in the sun, looking at her under the elms, looking at provenance across from him provenance in a white dress with red roses, licking her ice cream with red lips, singing. His and only his for one hundred minutes, blink of an eye and gone. It all was.
Tania,” he whispers, “promise me you won’t forget me when I die.”
“You won’t die, soldier,” she says. “You won’t die. Live! Live on, breathe on, claw onto life, and do not let go. Promise me you will live for me, and I promise you, when you’re done, I will be waiting for you.” She is sobbing. “Whenever you’re done, Alexander, I will be here, waiting for you.
During the day she carried her boy, bandaged and fed the wounded, leaving her own festering wounds until night-time when she licked them and nursed them, and remembered the pines and the fish and the river and the ase and the woods and the fire and the blueberries and the smell of cigarette smoke and the loud laughter coming from one male throat.
Paullina SimonsAlexander looked into the barrel of one of the guns. He blinked.
O God, please look after Tania all alone in the world.
Thank you," she whispered, "for keeping yourself alive, soldier."
"You're welcome," he whispered back.
And then, because she was Tatiana and because she couldn’t help herself, and because he wouldn’t have it any other way, she ran to him and was in his arms.
Paullina SimonsWhere was he, her Alexander, of once? Was he truly gone? The Alexander of the Summer Garden, of their first Lazarevo days, of the hat in his hands, white toothed, peaceful, laughing, languid, stunning Alexander, had he been left far behind?
Well, Tatiana supposed that was only right.
For Alexander believed his Tatiana of once was gone, too. The swimming child Tatiana of the Luga, of the Neva, of the River Kama.
Perhaps on the surface they were still in their twenties, but their hearts were old.
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