The Thunderstorm

…With an intriguing tone to draw attention away, Rodygin hurried to report that Vekshina had been at the milk kitchen. She was calmly pushing a stroller with a baby, and a car driven by Filimonov was speeding nearby, still indistinguishable in the flow of other vehicles. He was coming back from a birthday party, where he had drunk more than just tomato juice.

Filimonov gave a pleased little smile.

Now, feeling no twinge of conscience at all, Rodygin reminded him that his own eyesight was poor anyway, and that after the birthday party it was even worse. Besides, just a moment ago the thunderstorm had passed; the asphalt was wet, and the braking distance increased. Filimonov presses the pedal. Too late! A red light hits him in the eyes—the color of blood—his car is uncontrollably carried onto the crosswalk, where a happy mother is pushing her stroller.

Outside the window the brakes shrieked; Vekshina shut her eyes. Her daughter was named Agniya; she was chubby, dark-skinned, in an satin-pink envelope with lace. Not a blue one—blue is for boys, never for girls.