Every item goes up in front of him for perusal. I make sure the price tags are blindingly obvious, and I ask Yvonne again and again to announce as loud as she can what our running total is. We fly past five figures, past six, but even as two commas come into play, Sasha remains utterly unfazed. He takes a seat in an upholstered throne in the middle of the store. At one point, Yvonne approaches him. “This is quite a lot of items, Mr. Ozerov. Perhaps you’d like to—?”
“There was nothing ambiguous about ‘whatever she wants,’” he snarls. “Whatever. She. Wants.”
I redouble my efforts. For f**k’s sake, all I want is to see the faintest hint of the human I know is inside of him. This blank detachment is the worst face he could possibly present. I’m dying to change it in any way I can.
And yes,
