Masha, with her long legs and buoyant hello. She kicks up her legs in greeting, if once, often, in T Fool's fantasies of her. The room imagined with books: Pushkin and gazeteers, Marguerite Duras, some volumes with analytically cold titles connecting to mathematics. T Fool has no understanding of the latter, but in hearing her discourse on them -- sometimes in chalk, in a poetry (!) of quantitative relationships -- he feels her fire. The serious looks, her face picking up shadows, pin him, and he lies back as she initiates lovetaking. Authoritative. He has wanted to feed her cherries, but meets her pace. That is all.
Asking about her five years after circumstance keeps their daily routines utterly separate, he's apprised she has cancer.