Lydia was still brushing her hair. The strokes were slow, unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world. She sat at the small vanity table, her robe loosely tied, leaving the pale line of her neck bare. Each time the comb slid through her hair, the soft rustle seemed to echo in the quiet room.
Ivan was still sitting on the bed, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes followed every movement she made, but his face was unreadable. He didn't speak. He didn't even blink often. It was as if the sight of her had trapped him in some invisible net he couldn't escape.
A knock came at the door.
Without even turning around, Lydia said, "Come."
She said it like this was her room, her space, and Ivan was simply a guest.
