“I got it,” he said.
She hurried back to the kitchen. He sat at the table, the paper trembling in his broad hands. He held it out like precious parchment and not the government-issue letterstock it was. She took it, eyes stitching the length of the letter. “Where will it be?”
“Across from the market. Between Residence Ten and Twelve. Everyone will see it when they go to market. Everyone.”
She sat down, letting the letter rest on the table. “Have you decided what it will be?”
He stared past the bare light fixture, far beyond the cracked ceiling, his chiseled jaw proud. “It must be something grand, of course. Something inspiring. It must memorialize our great men. Our noble history. Oh Oksana—everyone will see this work. I will be remembered forever.”
She leaned forward, her small hand shelled over his, her eyes tender. “You will, solnishko. You will.”
This week’s location (Chernobyl) was especially fascinating to me. I could easily lose a morning, a day, or even a weekend, just wandering the streets. There’s something about urban decay that really makes me think about the transient nature of art, and life, and well… everything.