It wasn’t another mirage to which Esther enthusiastically waved but Pasha and Frida in the flesh. The family was barricaded on one side by water and on the other by cherry pits like tiny bullets that had perforated a flock of seagulls. They’re organic, said Levik, implying that they weren’t litter, though he would never say that as the family had a complicated relationship to litter. But the trouble with cherry pits was their clotted bloodiness and that they carried the ugly secret of mouths.
The three were silent. It wasn’t just another Thursday. They witnessed the day assume a somber, momentous quality. Darya’s notebook was now lost for a reason, the day’s events were like transparent beads through which ran the thread of fate. Oleg soon tired of the stoicism — he changed into sweatpants, collapsed into Darya’s worn computer chair.