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The beer bottle smashes against the wall, but Katya doesn’t hear it. The only thing she hears is the ticking of a clock. Or rather, two pocket watches, not quite in sync.
Her husband never was as fastidious as Andrey about keeping his wound. To him it was a gift from his father before it was a timekeeping device. To Andrey, only its usefulness made it worth keeping around.
The tick of the next second doesn’t come.
Time always does seem to know when to stop.
In another life, Katya thinks, there would be no smashing bottle– there would be no Andrey. No Naples. It would just be her and Goncharov together in Russia. Less powerful yes, but also less afraid.
In another life, there would be no Goncharov. There would only be Naples. And Sofia. Perhaps some farm away from the city where her life would mean nothing, but it might be happy.
In another life, there would be no Goncharov, no Sofia, no Andrey, no Naples. But that is a life too distant for her to even imagine.
The ticking of their watches begins again.
The shard of glass pierces her skin, but she feels nothing, until the wetness of blood begins to drip down her cheek.
Neither Andrey nor her husband even look at her. They are looking at each other which means she no longer exists at all.
She could say something, pull their focus. But to what end? No words can turn back time, unbreak a bottle, unfire a shot. They would not be here if she had stayed quiet.
Instead she lets it play out as it was meant to. The shadow of a woman in the corner of a room, bleeding in silence from the anger of men.
The men argue on.
The longer she watches, the less she recognizes either man. By the ticking of their watches, their faces shift into swathes of dark and light. She cannot tell whose face carries more darkness.
It doesn’t matter.
It is her face after all, that carries the most.
If Katya could still hear their words, she might know that they are arguing about her. Arguing about love. But she cannot.
She takes a step, and the floor creaks beneath her. The room falls silent. Andrey and Goncharov turn in unison to look at her. Two faces falling when they notice the blood on her face, the shard of glass still protruding from her skin.
Two pocket watches, tick in time.