Page 71 of The Lottery

This is not a feeling I am used to, yet I relish it all the same.

With my loose ends seemingly tied up, I set about packing for a night or two away. Each time I fold an article of clothing into my bag, I cannot help but imagine Azalea ripping it off of my body, and the fantasy makes me burn with desire. I fiercely need to be with her, to explore her with my mouth, my hands, my body. To feel her do the same to me. It is an agonizingly sweet distraction.

I watch seconds tick off the clock, waiting for the predetermined time when Azalea and I will meet outside our quarters and head to the truck for our mission. I could busy myself with any number of tasks, but the anticipation I feel is like waiting for the clock to strike midnight on New Year’s Eve. All of my hope, all of my future, wrapped up in that moment. The buzz of excitement keeps me pacing my suite. Each step another slice of time slivered off my wait. Each exhale brings me one breath closer to her.

The time finally arrives and I rush out the door while slinging my bag over my shoulder.

I grin as I step into the hall and see Azalea leaning against the wall waiting for me, her bag and winter coat on the floor beside her. She smiles brightly when she sees me, pushing herself upright and towards me, and it is as if gravity pulls us together. I cannot escape her grasp, nor would I ever want to.

Her hair is pulled back into a tight braid, her crystal blue eyes practically sparkling with excitement. She wears form-fitting jeans, winter boots, and a red cable knit sweater that brings out a flush of color in her cheeks. I want to pull her against me and take her mouth with mine with an urgency that is hard to resist, but I must show some restraint. At least until we are well on our way and away from the prying eyes of this ship.

“Azalea,” her name comes out a throaty whisper, more a prayer than anything. She is all I pray for. “I had half a fear you would change your mind,” I admit, running a hand through my hair, which refused to be tamed by a brush this morning.

“Really?” She raises an eyebrow. “Because you were lucky I didn’t barge into your room and drag you out of bed in the middle of the night so we could leave earlier.”

Her words light something in my chest, a heavy weight suddenly vanishing from my heart. I raise a hand to brush her cheek, unable to resist the desire to at least touch her briefly. She leans into the touch, closing her eyes with a soft smile on her lips as if it brings her great pleasure. It takes all of my self-control not to pull her into my suite and delay our trip by a few hours.

I’m forced to drop my hand quickly when her suite door opens, startling us both.

Ivan steps out and smiles at us. “Privet, droog. Kak dela?”

I nod. “I am doing well, old friend,” I say in English, so Azalea does not feel left out of the conversation. “And you? I regret we have not had more time to spend together.”

Ivan chuckles and waves his hand. “We have a whole lifetime here, do we not? There is nothing lost. I just came to wish you safe travels and a light heart.”

I hug Ivan, who in many ways is the only family I have left in this world or the last, and thank him for his words.

Azalea studies my face as we grab our bags and walk down the corridor toward the lift. As the doors close, her pensive expression changes to a smirk.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” she says. “You brought Ivan instead of a partner.”

I smile, half-ashamed at being found out and mostly relieved I have someone to share this with. That I have Azalea to share this with.

“Da,” I say as the doors open and we start toward the exit. “I have known Ivan for years. He ran a small kitchen in Moscow where I would eat when I was in university.”

“Uh huh. Then what?” Azalea asks, intuiting there is more to my story.

“One day I made a flippant comment about bringing him on as a personal chef when I became rich,” I recollect, easily falling back into the fondness of the memory. “A few years later, I showed up at his cafe with a check for ten-million rubles. I told Ivan he did not have to pay it back as long as I could eat for free whenever I was in town.”

The lift doors open and I head down the hall. It takes me a few steps to notice that Azalea has stopped walking, still standing a few paces behind me, staring.

“What?” I ask, wondering what I said that might have upset her.

“There has to be more to it,” she replies. “Is he family? Did he save your life? Were you in love with his daughter?”

The last question she tosses out in jest, but I know it is somewhat loaded. With no one in the hallway, I move to her and take her hand.

“Ivan lived alone. No wife or children, only his small business that he ran by himself. And whenever I saw him, he had a smile. He treated everyone with genuine care and gave food away to hungry children whenever they asked. I admired him very much. In time, he became a true friend.”

I see emotion brimming in Azalea’s eyes and I swallow back the lump growing in my own throat. “You do not find people like Ivan very often. It has been a great privilege to be of help to him.”

Azalea looks into my eyes a moment longer, then takes my hand and speeds toward the exit.

“We need to go,” she says. “Now.”

I take long strides to keep up with her, amused by the sudden urgency.

When we reach the maintenance corridor, soft morning light trickles in through the small window in the door. I open the exit and cold air floods in, bringing with it the smell of wet grass and fallen leaves.

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