A Russian author is read
This woman, who has small feet, lies on her bed reading Dostoevsky. She pauses to place the book face down on her stomach. Then she lifts her head and plumps her pillow with both hands. She drops her head and sinks instantly into the recent plumpness of the cushion. She picks up the book and as her eyes graze listlessly over the text of the 'The Idiot', her mind wanders.
Tomorrow she will tell her colleagues at the accounting firm where she works as an executive assistant, that she spent the night reading Dostoevsky. She will make sure that she says 'Dos-te-ove-ski'. The Russian way to pronounce the name. Then she will go on to tell them about the apocalyptic framework of the book, the characters and their conflicts penned across a moving landscape of pre-Soviet Russia. She will talk about it during the second half of the lunch break so that her colleagues give her more attention than the sandwich in front of them.
And later at coffee break, Brian, the handsome one, will mention how well-read she was. She reads some Russian author and all, he will say. And everyone around him will nod in assent. Some years later, when they will have moved on to different jobs, someone will say something about their favourite author and someone else will say, ah, I used to know this girl from my last job, she has even read Dostoevsky (pronouncing it 'some Russian author').
For the moment, the woman whose feet are small, shuts her eyes and sleeps a dreamless sleep.