Danil Khartov looked up from the chair where he slouched, watching the news with half an eye. A bottle of vodka sat beside him on the Major's invisible acrylic side table.
The table amused Khartov. It seemed truly invisible sometimes, which was kind of the point of such a modernist artifact in a translucent material, and then, the more you drank, the more invisible it subsequently became.
A triumph, that.
But the phone was ringing.
He turned his head and glanced behind him.
"Hey. You gonna get that?" he called, vaguely, wondering if Barshai was up and about.
He was loathe to abandon his seat in front of the fire and the television. The Major's red barcelona chair was deceptively comfortable.
No answer was forthcoming, and when he listened, he could hear the sound of cascading water, distant, like it was behind a door.
Barshai was in the shower, then.
With a sigh, Khartov pushed up, crossing the living room to the hall table where the black utilitarian phone rested, bell jangling at regular intervals.
He picked up the receiver and rested it between his chin and shoulder while he lit a cigarette, striking a match against its jacket.
"Major Isaev's apartment," he drawled, holding the tip against the flame. "This is Danya."
no subject
Danil Khartov looked up from the chair where he slouched, watching the news with half an eye. A bottle of vodka sat beside him on the Major's invisible acrylic side table.
The table amused Khartov. It seemed truly invisible sometimes, which was kind of the point of such a modernist artifact in a translucent material, and then, the more you drank, the more invisible it subsequently became.
A triumph, that.
But the phone was ringing.
He turned his head and glanced behind him.
"Hey. You gonna get that?" he called, vaguely, wondering if Barshai was up and about.
He was loathe to abandon his seat in front of the fire and the television. The Major's red barcelona chair was deceptively comfortable.
No answer was forthcoming, and when he listened, he could hear the sound of cascading water, distant, like it was behind a door.
Barshai was in the shower, then.
With a sigh, Khartov pushed up, crossing the living room to the hall table where the black utilitarian phone rested, bell jangling at regular intervals.
He picked up the receiver and rested it between his chin and shoulder while he lit a cigarette, striking a match against its jacket.
"Major Isaev's apartment," he drawled, holding the tip against the flame. "This is Danya."