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Sydd's escapades with her client, Binaca Trevors.
They hadn't needed language to communicate when they were children and now, so much older and more mature, they found that it still wasn't necessary. Millennia might have passed around Peter and Katya or time could have come to a complete standstill-either way they wouldn't have known. Peter had no idea how much time had passed before Katya mouthed, silently, five syllables to him in Russian: "Ya tebya lyublyu." In that moment Peter recognized that those unspoken words were the five most beautiful syllables in any language on Earth and mouthed them back to her, and she smiled and pressed her body closer onto his.
They fell asleep together on the sand before waking up again, hours later. It was still day but the sky was a deeper, greyer blue than before; it wouldn't be long before the sun started setting. Peter and Katya took in their surroundings, smiling when they realized they were still with each other and that this hadn't been some cruel, taunting dream. Peter reached up and caressed his cousin's face.
"You are beautiful," Peter marveled.
"You are beautiful," Katya returned the compliment, running her fingers along his face in kind.
"I don't know what we do next," Peter admitted.
"We drink," Katya answered, stretching over as far as she could without letting her legs leave Peter's sides and grabbing the bottle of vodka, which was still two-thirds full. She brushed the sand from the bottom of the bottle off with her hand and rested it square on the center of Peter's chest.
"To long overdue reunion," Katya pronounced, lifting the bottle from Peter's chest and taking a long swig. She handed the bottle to Peter. He took it and sat up; Katya scooted back, still straddling him, his sleeping prick resting snugly between his pelvis and her still warm and wet slit.
Peter held the bottle and thought hard about what to toast to. Finally it came to him and he held the bottle up with confidence.
"To nostalghia," Peter proclaimed, taking a long swig. He stopped feeling so proud of himself when he noticed Katya just staring at him blankly.
"What?" Peter asked.
"I don't know," Katya answered, equally confused.
"Nostalghia," Peter repeated himself. "That's Russian, right?" She still looked at him blankly.
"I mean, in English, nostalgia just means a longing for or reminiscence of the past. But doesn't nostalghia, in Russian, specifically mean homesickness for Russia?"
Katya still looked at him blankly.
"Like, it's a metaphor, and I'm trying to say you're Russia, and I've been homesick for you, and now I'm home."
Katya still looked at him blankly.
"Oh, come on!" Peter grew frustrated. "Like in the Tarkovsky movie? I'm not imagining the definition of this word, am I?"
Katya continued to stare at her cousin until finally she burst out into uncontrollable laughter. She collapsed onto her cousin, laughing into the chest she had been clawing into only minutes earlier.
"What?" Peter complained.
"I am sorry, cousin," Katya tried to spit out between long bursts of laughter.
"What?" Peter insisted.
"I appreciate sentiment," Katya, still barreling over with laughter, tried to pick herself up again so she could look her cousin in the eye, "but what is word in English?" She still laughed in spite of herself and in spite of her stone-faced cousin lying beneath her. "Cheesy!" she finally exclaimed. "What you say is very cheesy!"
"Well I love you too," Peter shrugged.
"Ooohhhhh," Katya fell forward and kissed her cousin several times indiscriminately on the cheeks and lips, simultaneously playfully and sincerely. "I love you, cousin. Does not make what you say any less cheesy," she laughed and took a swig of vodka before holding the bottle forward and offering it to Peter. Peter took another large swig to assuage his bruised ego. Katya could detect his discomfort.
"Hey," Katya asserted.