#dow.start

It took him almost two decades to realize that he worked best when he was intense pressure; it felt like controlled chaos in a sense, allowing him to align his priorities in a mental task list filled with parentheses, scratch outs, and occasional commentary that wasn’t very noteworthy when visited for a second time. Pen took to paper when his thoughts became too cluttered for cigarettes and alcohol to fix, though more often than not his scribbles were lost in translation, too difficult to decode, or sacrificed to the fire that fueled his next nicotine hit.  As he leaned back against the wall to stretch out his legs, Sorin finally relieved his hand from the clutches of his disorganized thoughts and placed the pen back down along the spine of his notebook. His meal was mostly forgotten, as was the wine glass that trembled with each footstep that strained the floorboards beneath him. He lifted his drink first, taking a sip that, unfortunately, did not come with an epiphany he very well hoped for-- though his spontaneous decision saved its delicate body from getting knocked over when an absentminded patron bumped into his table.  Once his fountain pen made contact with the floor, several things happened at once:  -The patron made a low noise that sounded slightly like a sharp inhale caught in his throat when he spotted his misdeed, regret already coiling his brows into furrowed little nubs  -The object happily rolled itself to kiss the toe of someone else’s shoes, as if waiting for attention from a person who would give it a moment’s rest during normal sleeping hours  -Sorin lazily crossed one leg over the other, catching the individual’s gaze momentarily before it flickered down to the pen next to their feet, then back up again. He silently waited for a response, noting that something so insignificant as picking up an item off the floor could speak volumes on the personality of a person. Slowly, he raised his glass to his lips once more. “I fail to align my taste with the likes of lamb today. What do you recommend?”

Moscow bestowed a plethora of cultural gifts upon the stable hand's doorstep and the theater had stolen their attention above all else. The static radio of their youth could not compare to watching an orchestra; horse-hair bows pulling expertly across taut strings while deft fingers danced across wooden necks. Feeling the melody reverberate against their chest as if it were their own heartstrings being played. Every payday, Mishka spent their evening at the theater, feeling closer to God--they would never admit aloud--than they could ever feel at a church.

They waited in the stairwell for the final note of the orchestra. It was not impatience for the symphony to end which held them so close to the exit--it was the anticipation of the crowd swarming the exits. Seated, the crowd was a sleeping beast but standing -they became an endless ocean and Mishka often fought to keep their breath steady as they felt buried beneath it.

A wave of clapping erupted from the theater and Mishka gave their own short, obligatory claps before they trotted down the stairs and out the doors into the December air. They were met with a dark, snowy sky. How quaint, how spectacular the music had made such a mundane evening. The snow felt otherworldly as the grip of percussion and strings continued to play in Mishka's subconscious. They closed their eyes and inhaled the frigid air, finding a peacefulness they would have never thought possible two years ago.

The crowd filled the streets as Mishka clung to the walls outside of the theater. Here, braced safely against the solid surface, they could watch the sea of faces as they met, chattered, and said their goodbyes. This, Mishka mused, was all part of the show as well. The wealthier residents in their elegant furs and coats under the snowfall were like actors secretly playing a role in their own ballet. They would watch and wait until nearly everyone was gone--if they were lucky, sometimes they would even catch a glimpse of the musicians leaving as well.