Work Text:
When Alina used to imagine womanhood, she imagined it to be something sharp and shadowed, an esoteric switch from White Claws to champagne in a dainty flute, held by a daintier hand. Pink gloss exchanged for dark red matte.
She pictured a woman, a lady, swathed in organza and not rayon. The kind of person who might be haloed in warm lights, with healthy hair and none of Alina's tendency to be strung along by Mal, or whoever it was that had most recently tossed her some attention.
That woman wouldn't look out of place on Sasha's arm, she thinks. That woman might be able to sit in the lofty penthouse, with her organic, Sasha-approved cereals, and not feel so sad and sick all the time. That woman might have the pregnancy glow people always go on about, instead of a grey pallor that makes Alina wince every time she sees a mirror.
And Alina is quickly learning she is not that woman. Alina is sad and sick and lonely, so she opens a window.
She sits in the chair by the window and listens the birds chirp. The time is 12 o clock. In one hour, Sergei will come over with her lunch. It will be high quality and It will have high nutritional value. It will not include the bacon she's been wanting. She will choke it down, because Sergei reports back to Sasha on her eating and Alina doesn't want to upset him.
At one thirty, Genya or Zoya might call, and the conversation will be pleasant and meaningless. Alina will ask them to come over for brunch the next day. They will refuse in an inoffensive, roundabout way. Alina will smile and say, ‘oh, no worries, it's fine!’ .
The call will be over by two. Alina will cry herself to sleep and wake up when it's already dark out. She will send for another set of magazines. She will not finish reading them. She will be back asleep within the hour.
She will not see Sasha, the same way she has not seen him all week. The baby will kick as she sleeps. They will not wake her. By the time Alina wakes up, the baby will have settled down again.
At noon, Alina will open a window.