A CHOICE

“Your Chianti,” the waiter crooned softly right at her ear.

Eva seemed to come back to herself. She quivered at the sudden touch of cold and carefully settled the light wool coat over her shoulders. Absentmindedly, she ran her palm along the sleeve, as if checking whether the fabric was still there, and only then lifted her slightly tired gaze and let it wander across the small and cozy hall of the Italian restaurant.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” she replied with a faint smile.

The waiter set down the glass and stepped away.

Somewhere behind the counter, a little bell chimed melodically, announcing another order ready - and it finally let her sink back into the present, which felt unexpectedly pleasant.

From her table by the window, she could see the entire room. It was small, barely enough to hold eight tables. It was a workday, and the restaurant sat far from the nearest office towers. The lunch hour was nearly over, yet the place was packed. Guests lingered over their plates, sipping well - chilled wine and trading lively conversation.

Most of the patrons were in groups of three or four. Only Eva and one other woman - seated at a table across the room - were on their own. The woman kept glancing at her watch, again and again. Eating in hurried bites, putting down her fork only to pick it right back up, as if she simply couldn’t afford to slow down.

“You tried it?” came from a nearby table.

“Nah, but I hear the sauce is great.”

A faint, pleasant music, coming from nowhere in sight, softly flowed straight into the ears. It seemed so completely unknown and yet so familiar - and drove her attention from the side conversations. Those, in turn, melted in the tiny gaps between the solid oak tables, small sofas, and soft bowl - shaped chairs.

The deep muted greens and burgundy of the interior, framed by the wooden edges of service counters and wine shelves - worked their own quiet magic. In the dim, warm glow of transparent lamps that looked like glass flasks hanging from long black cords, they simply dissolved and absorbed everything unnecessary around her.

Eva spun the glass slowly by its stem, watching the wine swirl and settle. She lifted it to her lips, took a small sip, and held it there - not swallowing, just letting the flavor open up on her tongue.

She watched the room go about its business - a small, inexplicable anthill, senseless from the outside but humming with its own quiet logic.

The soup arrived.

Faces shifted. Some finished their meals and left. Others appeared and took their places at once. Across the room, a woman glanced at her watch again and called for the check. A nimble young waiter in a long apron the color of expensive wine appeared as if out of thin air. In one fluid motion, he exchanged the checkbook for the empty teacup and the untouched bread basket - and vanished. She paid her bill quickly, gathered her things, and headed for the exit.

The thick broccoli cream soup, with sprigs of microgreens and a drizzle of olive oil, warmed her softly, carefully. The heat spread inside, reaching her chest.

It was a kind of magic - to step off the rushing express train of success and, taking it slow, enjoy the true taste and scent of your own life. Simple. And real.

Eva set her spoon aside, reached for her glass, and looked out the window.

It was a kind of magic - to smile at the still - warm autumn sunlight. To rustle golden leaves beneath her feet through the narrow streets of an unfamiliar city. To drink wine at lunch without arguing with anyone or discussing a thing. Again.

The thoughts made her smile.

Why was it so hard to give yourself such a simple pleasure? Forget the routine, pack a small suitcase, and get on a train. Shorten the workweek - not for anyone or anything - just to be alone, breathe in happiness, smile at coincidences, and see what happens.

Why did everything need a prompt? Where are our prompts? Aren’t we our own greatest prompt?

Eva finished her soup, wiped her lips with a napkin, and put it aside.

It was a kind of magic - to hear the voice inside, surrender, and become happier. Happier for a day, for an hour, for a moment. At last.

The woman’s soft smile faded into something thoughtful, almost sad. She leaned back and kept looking at the empty plate for a while.

A short distance away, her laptop sat half - asleep on the table. She shifted closer, touched the lid with her fingertips, but didn’t open it.

The laptop was always there. Inside it, neat folders held messy files - feelings, photos, sketches, stray poems, odd phrases. An emotional archive. She rarely opened it on purpose, usually by accident. And every time, she was surprised by what still felt alive, long after the moment had passed.

She eased the laptop aside.

She wrote. She had been writing for a long time, in different ways. At first just for herself - to try. Later, quite deliberately.

She wrote not to drown in happiness, not to die of grief. To finish things. To let them go. To survive.

For a while, writing was enough. Then it wasn’t.

She started sharing. Family. Friends. And friends of theirs.

Eva took another sip and put the glass down.

Eva hadn’t even noticed when her life had changed course and started moving in circles - slowing down, inside and out. First, she started going out less, just for a while. Then - stopped talking unless she had to. And - stopped writing.

Eva leaned back again. Outside, an autumn leaf spun slowly, inviting her out. She paid, fixed her coat, tucked the laptop into her backpack, and stepped out into the friendly but still unfamiliar city.

The autumn air felt thick and clear at the same time. And there was a smell that only comes in the gap between seasons - nothing has ended yet, but everything has already begun to change.

The wind touched her face, slow and careful, as if asking whether it was allowed.

Eva walked. The city slowly drifted toward her. Thoughts kept pace.

Sometimes the body remembers faster than the mind.

Not a memory - a vibrance with no age.

***

Eva walked the way she used to long ago. Lightly. Straight forward, as if something important was waiting ahead. As if the earth itself was spinning beneath her feet and there was no reason to turn around.

The feeling was weightless, faint, and gave no clue where it had come from and why.

***

We had a lot of fancy things in our childhood.

And even more we had not.

We had, for example, lots of friends to spend the whole day with outside till the sun set.

“You coming out?” - a voice called from below.

“Be right there!” - several voices answered at once.

They’d rush into the yard. Jackets hanging open. Sometimes a piece of bread still in hand. Loud, restless games started on their own. An idea was enough.

The world felt endless, deeply absorbing - and no one ever doubted, not for a second: they were strong and talented, and everything was possible in that Universe.

“Let’s make it like this. It’s double”

“No, you can’t do it like that, look!”

“What if you do it this way?”

Laughter, disputes, arguments - everything was loud and alive.

We had no internet at that time. Not even mobiles.

Having an ordinary wired phone was evidence of a major social achievement in itself.

“They have a phone,” people said respectfully.

Those who had home telephones were high - ranking bosses, their indispensable assistants, and respectable war and labor veterans only. And when the fearsome bosses left for work, all the neighborhood children flocked to the apartments with telephones.

“Come on, do it,” the bravest one pushed toward the line.

“No, not me, you better.”

They’d dial random numbers, hold the receiver to their ear, and, choking with laughter, say some ridiculous nonsense to a stranger on the other end of the line.

“Hello! Is this the Rabbit’s residence?”

“No.”

“Oh, then why are your ears sticking out of my receiver?”

They’d slam down the phone, bursting into laughter. For some reason, it seemed extremely funny those days. There was no caller ID. Such jokes had almost no consequences at all.

We knew at least fifty ways to jump over a rubber band. The neighborhood hooligans’ collection included a dozen games with jump ropes and balls that required neither a stadium nor a sports field.

But it was merely a warm - up. The real games began later, when the whole company gathered after breakfast and all that daily stuff.

Our genius game ideas mostly came from books. The movies offered little variety - the same films ran for months at a time. Foreign films were almost nonexistent. Children had no access to 16+ films.

“No luck?”

At the box office, the answer was obvious.

“Nope.”

“Well. Whatever. I’ll tell you how it was in the book.”

Despite the lack of inspiration, we wanted to play every single day.

It looks like those historical and fantasy reenactors we see nowadays are exactly the same children from our yard who simply never stopped playing. At least, the incredible meticulousness and obsessive attention to the tiniest details, along with the wild devotion to fully inhabiting the role - all seem suspiciously familiar.

We were all fans and experts in those days. Everyone had their own field.

Anything that caught our attention - a literary masterpiece, a musical composition, a theatrical production, a film, a cartoon, or a joke - we knew everything about it. Not just the work itself in micro - detail, but the story behind its creation, the biographies of everyone involved. Some of us could even quote entire passages word for word.

It was a life in a time of information scarcity. When news was scarce, you wanted to know everything possible - and preferably first.

Everyone had a subscription to follow their news. No exception.

Ha. It’s so interesting. Everyone still follows today. But mostly people now.

Back then, a subscription meant printed publications.

For the politically oriented - state periodicals.

For gardeners and craft - loving women - women’s magazines.

For the progressive - Yunost.

For lovers of literature - the thick Literary Gazette and Foreign Literature.

Children had their own newspapers and magazines too. Vesyolye Kartinki and Murzilka for the younger ones. Young Technician, Boomerang, and Smena for teenagers.

Eva was an ordinary child. She went to school, attended dance and sports clubs, read her magazines, watched new films on television during the New Year holidays, discussed the latest news with her schoolmates passionately and enthusiastically.

Then life veered. Sharp.