📨🌬️🕯️🩰🪆

Ilya: I'm a knife

During communion, he crosses his arms and receives a blessing instead. He doesn't go to confession anymore, he likely never will again. He will keep his sins to himself; they are precious to him.

After the service, he goes to the annex and indulges in the free, shitty coffee, mingles shyly with the other congregants. Breaks off a piece of fresh pirozhki, crumbs falling on a papery napkin, lets the babushkas tell him all about their lovely, single granddaughters. Recently, some of the children figured out he plays for the Raiders, shyly coming up to him to ask him to sign their service programs. Then, weeks later, they expect him and bring pucks and silver sharpies.

Sometimes, when gossiping with the women or talking hockey with the men, he has to lean in and ask someone to repeat something, not recognizing a Russian word, and he worries he's forgetting. He thinks to ask Shane if he ever can't recognize a word in English or French, but thinks it's too vulnerable, memory being a strange and painful topic for both of them.

He always leaves earlier than all the others, pocketing one more pirozhki for the road and sneaking out without saying goodbye.

The cathedral is the only place in Boston where he is reminded of home and mama and himself. He goes mostly just so he can be in a room where everyone speaks Russian, where he doesn't have to waste precious energy translating all this stupid English. Sometimes, when he is feeling particularly indulgent, he listens to the singing children and he allows himself to believe. In this brief belief-state, he is deserving of his lover, he will see his mother again someday. It barely lasts a minute, and then the heels of his feet start to hurt in his dress shoes.

“Shane, how does it feel to be back on Montreal ice?”