"Hello, Dmitri."

"Agrafena." He nods by way of greeting, his voice soft, hoarse.

His weakness does not cheer her. She has no desire to see him in shambles. She doesn't like the broken look in his eyes, the way his arms are wrapped around his body as though to protect him from a coming blow. She tells herself firmly that she will not be the one who deals that blow. She knows her own temper; she will keep herself in check. She will not hate him. "I'm surprised to see you here."

"I was in the neighborhood. I thought I'd drop in."

She knows he's on tour, knows he should not be here in New York. He's supposed to be performing tonight in Chicago. It's only 8 AM, so he has time to get there in time for the night's show-- nonetheless, he should not be here. She wonders, how long has he been here, waiting outside her office door? She doesn't need to wonder who let him in. He's a rock star; who wouldn't let him in?

She does not mention tonight's show. He knows he's playing tonight, and he knows she knows he's playing. Saying it would be redundant. "Look, I--" he begins, then breaks off.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to sayŠ" He struggles to say it, fails.

"You don't have to say anything, Mitya. It's all right."

He looks at her, and she almost wants to cry-- almost being the essential word. Those bright dark sharp eyes. Not so long ago, she loved those eyes. The expression in them now is not one she ever saw in them, back when she loved them. They are as raw and the whites are as red as open wounds. "No, I want to say it."

"We can step into my office?" There is no one around now; the hall leading to her office is a relatively quiet one, but someone might happen upon them at any moment, and knowing her luck, it would be the wrong someone. She does not want to have to read her name in the gossip column again: Dmitri K of the Brothers K was sighted at the office of his ex-girlfriend, music journalist Grushenka. Are they rekindling the flames of their romance? She loves attention, but that kind of attention she could do without. Rumors were persistent things. People would be more likely to believe the chattering gossip columnists than to take her word for it that she will never take him back, no matter what, no matter how much time has passed. They'd think: who would give up the glamor, the excitement, of dating a rock star? They don't know. They don't know a fucking thing.

He shakes his head. "I can't stay long."

"Then say what you have to." She doesn't mean to be abrupt, but she doesn't know what to say to him. It's a feeling she's unaccustomed to, not knowing what to say. She hates standing so close to him, inhaling his scent, without being able to touch him, to press her body against his. It is a mild form of torture. She clenches her jaw, baring her teeth in what is meant to be an approximation of a smile.

"I fucked things up," Mitya manages at last.

"Yes, you did."

"I'm sorry." He forces these two words out with a great effort. They sound quick and distorted, as though someone else is saying them, as though suddenly he is being dubbed and they are just actors in some stupid movie with a timeworn plot.

"I don't believe in apologies," she says calmly. "I believe that if you're truly capable of being sorry for something, you wouldn't have done it in the first place."

Mitya shakes his head, slowly, as though hesitant to disgree with her. "You can't ever have done anything horrible, or you'd know that isn't true. It isn't true at all. "

"Oh, I've done horrible things. But I can't accept your apology," Grushenka says.

"If that makes you feel better."

"It doesn't."

Mitya nods. "I understand."

He knows her well enough that he might truly understand, she thinks. How difficult it is to find someone who understands. How much more difficult to lose them. "Can I ask you a question?"

Mitya nods again.

"If I had stayed," she says. "If I had forgiven you. Would you have stopped?"

Mitya considers. His eyes do not meet hers. He looks at the floor of the hallway, carpeted in dull gray, low shag. A muscle leaps in his jaw, a heartbreak twinge. He wants to lie. In the end, however, he hasn't the strength. "No," he says. She has the strength. She could tell a thousand lies, right now, gazing into his eyes; she wouldn't break a sweat. But why bother? "The heroin was bad enough," she says, "but I've dated junkies before. I can deal with that."

He nods. "I'm off the heroin."

Grushenka shakes her head. As if that made a difference! Why has he come here? Could he-- She blinks, just now entertaining the possibility. Could he possibly want her back? It's an absurd idea, but absurdity is not unheard of where Mitya is concerned. She can't allow him to entertain the idea. "That's nice." She allows the anger she feels to creep into her voice at last, forgetting her earlier resolution not to hurt him. "That's nice. Of course, I couldn't care less. It's a little too late." He does not reply to this, simply nods, still looking down. She's never seen him looking so pathetic. She remembers their old flare-ups, the passion in those battles, the screams and shattered dishes. "Why couldn't you do what ordinary rock stars do and cheat on me with some cute little groupie in pigtails? Why not? I wouldn't have cared too much. It's the usual thing. I might have overlooked it."

He smiles. This is the first time she's seen him smile today, and a shadow of the old Mitya flickers in his eyes. Grim and wry. Those are gallows humor eyes. That's the Mitya she misses. She can't hate him. As much as she'd like to, she can't. "I'm not an ordinary rock star." The words are ironic. He doesn't spare himself.

She shakes her head. "If it had been anyone else. Anyone."

"Yeah, well. It wasn't."

"Even if it was a man. A different man I could have overlooked."

"Yeah, well," he says again. "You know who it was."

Yes. She knows who it was. She will never be able to forget the sight. Mitya in bed with his half-brother, the cream-colored sheets a rumpled mess. Their clothes crumpled on the floor, strewn about the room. She'd frozen where she stood. Mitya, drunk and probably high as well, did not hear her come in. His eyes were closed, his face screwed with effort, sweat from his brow rolling down the sides of his face. Below Mitya was his brother, on his hands and knees, getting fucked by his older brother. Grushenka stood, feet nailed to the floor, for several seemingly interminable moments, unable to move or speak, watching.

Mitya's brother, Pavel, watched her back. He had seen her come in, but he did not say anything to Mitya or to her. He simply watched her with those pitch black eyes, both of them silent as Mitya groaned at his labors. Grushenka had never liked Pavel. Pavel had never liked her. As she watched him watching her, as she watched Mitya moving in and out of him, Grushenka was not surprised to see a small quirking smile of triumph on Pavel's lips. She remembers thinking: So Beauty has lost to the Beast. Or, she thinks now, perhaps it was just a matter of a beast losing to another beast. She regards Mitya, standing before her now, a man wrecked by that drunken moment, one of many drunken moments. We're all beasts.

She remembers clearing her throat. Wasn't that the usual thing to do in such a situation? As if infidelity clogged the throat. And it did. Her throat had filled with a thick dark fluid. She'd had to clear it, or she'd have choked on the anger and hurt in that liquid, choked to death. At the sound, Mitya opened his eyes. He pulled away from Pavel. His shock was evident. She wasn't supposed to be home so early.

"Hello," she said.

"I can explain." The desperation in his voice was explanation enough. He started to move towards her, realized he was naked, and grabbed a handful of sheets to cover himself with. Pavel kept mute, as though this moment was of no consequence, and he was simply waiting it to pass, for the sex to resume, for everything to return to what it had been before.

"Can you?"

"Uh--" Mitya was a dumb drunk. "No."

Pavel was still smiling faintly. The little monster. If it had been anyone else. Dark eyes and dark hair, just like Mitya's. She saw the resemblance, the traces of their shared father. Grushenka resisted the urge to walk over to where he was lying-- on her side of the bed!-- and strike the smile from his face. She wouldn't slap him. Oh no. She'd punch him. He was already so ugly, a broken nose wouldn't make him any worse. But no, it was already too late for that. Too late. "Bye, Mitya." She turned around and began to walk away.

"Grusha, wait--!"

"Hugs and kisses, Mitenka." She walked across their apartment, for the last time save one, the time she came to get her things. Then the doorknob was in her hands, and she turned it. The slam of the door behind her was satisfying, but only for a moment. Once the sound of that slam had faded from her ears, she was left alone with her rage and her shock and her hurt, her fingers curled into fists, fingernails stabbing her palms, leaving scarlet crescents there which she would still be able to see, hours later, as she cried into a cup of tea at her sister's house.

That was months ago. She is better now, calmer, colder. "What do you want?" she asks him. She's more than ready for him to go.

"You," he says simply.

Yes, he really is that stupid. She sighs. "I'm afraid you can't have that. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"I love you." Mitya offers these words to her as though they are all he has. In a way, Grushenka senses, that is true.

"Do you love me enough to stop screwing your brother?"

Mitya winces, goes pale. He still can't lie, not yet. She's sure the ability will come back to him in time. He has a knack for it. "I--" His voice is faint. "I can't stop."

"I see. What a close family. How sweet." She could tell a thousand lies. "Unfortunately, I don't love you. And maybe he does." Discussing Mitya's relationship with Pavel, such as it is, leaves a strange taste in her mouth, bitter and metallic. "If he's capable of that kind of thing. So why don't you content yourself with him?"

Pavel with his lazy eye. The evil eye, they used to call it. A difficult, different eye that looks where it wants to look, sees things it shouldn't see. Maybe she should pity him; pity's the acceptable reaction. Acceptability was never a goal of hers, however, and she's too much like Pavel to pity him. It's just that no one can see her evil eye. She imagines Pavel there standing in the hallway beside Mitya. His skinny body, naked as she saw him that day, his broodin, smirk. There is something in his expression of joy, yes, the triumph over a rival, but there is something else too. We're just alike, he seems to say.

Yes, that's right, she silently replies. That's why we hate each other.

"I'm sorry," says Mitya again. Practice makes perfect; the words come to him more easily this time. "I guess I'll-- go, then." His eyes, beloved eyes, ask a question. Do you mean it? You really don't love me anymore?

"Yes, you'd better be going."

Mitya nods. He turns and walks away from her, much as she walked away from him in their apartment months ago, but his head is down, where hers was high. She hates to see the way he moves now, the way he moves away, his shoulders down, his head down, his steps slow and shuffling, as though he's diminishing before her eyes, diminished not merely by the physical distance growing between them with each step. She feels a dull ache in her side. She knows she can call him back. At any moment she could call him back, and what hurts is knowing she will not, knowing she will let him go. He turns a corner, and she can no longer see him.

"Hugs and kisses, Mitenka," she says softly. She turns, opens her office door, and disappears inside.