'Natasha'

We found Rufus in the backyard deck listening to Led Zepellin and eating an omellete. Although he was alone, the table was set for four with a complete set of linen napkins and matching cutlery.

He didn't seem at all surprised to see us. That was part of his persona. Rufus never appeared surprised about anything. At 20 years, he'd already accomplished more than most men twice his age. It was rumoured that aside from dealing, he was also a partner in a used car lot/body shop and various other ventures. Nobody who knew him had ever seen him sleep.

Even though I had only intended to see him for as long as it took to get the eighth, he insisted on cooking us breakfast. Natasha and I sat at the kitchen counter while he beat eggs. He explained that even when he ate alone he liked to set a full table. The mere act of setting extra places made for good karma- so that even when he was not expecting guests, there existed tangible evidence announcing that he was open to the possibility!

Back on the deck I explained to Rufus about Natasha, leaving out the details I didn't think he needed to know. She sat inside meanwhile, quite content, with her omelette and orange juice.


I noticed Rufus looking at her.
-Did I mention she was 14?
-My interest, I assure you, is purely anthropological.
-The anthropology of jailbait.
-She's an intense little chick.
-She's Russian. We're born intense.
-With all due respect, Berman, you and her aren't even the same species.