The Subject Under Discussion

If science ever does figure out how time actually works, I would be willing to wager that it will stem in part from discovering how placing the words "look" and "out" in close proximity seems to have an effect on that very process. Here's an example of how it happened with me.

_ "LOOK..."_

Sound waves burst toward my general direction on the beach, at about a thousand feet per second, causing me to look up from my book just in time to observe a wet beach ball aiming for my head at a speed just a wee bit slower. I attempted to raise my paw toward the object to bat it away, some part of my bear's brain realizing that (a) I would not like to get beaned by this ball, (b) the ball is wet, and therefore my paperback book might be in some danger, and (c) shifting any part of my body this quickly in warm dry sand was absolutely the best way to ensure that more sand worked its way into my fur than is strictly necessary.

Simultaneously, I had the opportunity once more to question why in the world I was at the beach in the first place, particularly in this area well known to be the "gay ghetto" of the area. There's far too much eye-candy about to be healthy for a sexual diabetic such as myself. In a location where the object of attendance is to have as much of you be seen as is legal, it is always an advantage to have sufficient quantities of what is worth being seen, e.g., flat belly, hard pecs, beefy thighs, buns of steel, etc. In these categories, I'm sometimes said to have more, and in less perfection, than is strictly warranted. What separates me from looking like a beached whale, one young whelp told me, was that I was furry and the wrong color. As I've said myself, I was going to be a belly dancer, and I was told that my belly was overqualified.

All this in a span of microseconds, or hours, depending upon what side of the temporal anomaly you happened to be.

"...OUT!"

The ball struck first the sand just ahead of my book; the water from the ball picked up some sand to decorate both the book and my face as it bounced upward, and then used my forehead as another momentum-dampening device, before floating lamely for a few feet and landing in an otherwise unoccupied spot on the sand nearby. My arm, too late to do any deflecting itself, shamefully presented a paw to start brushing the sand off my face, as the unoccupied space of sand quickly became occupied.

"I'm sorry, sir - the ball got away from me. Are you okay?"

Oh, hells no, I'm not okay; one look at the speaker told me that instantly. The lad was an Adonis of preternatural proportion. A solidly built lion no less than 6'7" (he looked like a skyscraper, from my prone position), with fur of a deep azure - painted, I first thought, with classical symbols on his arms, chest, and legs, until I realized that they might well be natural, made as they were of indigo that matched his secondary fur color. A tiny Whoopi Goldberg in my mind, like a chibi Jamaican woman, screamed out, "Da manly muscles is REEP-LEENG!" This lad could replace Gray's anatomy, at least in the segment concerning musculature; he was more solid than bronze, and quite possibly just as hard.

"Oh, no trouble, lad," I said as nonchalantly as possible. "One expects this sort of thing at the beach, doesn't one?"

He chuckled slightly. "One does," he said without a trace of irony or sneering. It caught me by surprise. "Is your book all right?"

I rolled over and managed to sit up without registering on the Richter scales of the nearby university, had a look at my pocket volume and judged that it would survive. "I think so. Paperbacks can always be replaced."

"Dostoevsky?" the lion questioned gently. With a smile, he said, "I'm not sure that's allowed for summer reading."

The literary police go undercover in a body like this? "I'm hoping that I can beat the rap; it's some of his short stories."

The lion squatted down to look me more in the eye - probably a good thing, as my eyes were, prior to this, just about level with his well-filled thong. As you could guess, with such an absorbing subject in my direct field of vision, I could see little else. "Given the length of big works like War and Peace, I didn't know that Russian writers were capable of writing something short."

"Short by their standards, at least."

"YO, AL!" shouted a voice. "You comin' back?"

With athletic nonchalance, the great lion looked back over his shoulder and heaved the beach ball back toward a small gathering of equally exceptional examples of studliness. "Back in a minute," he called, then turned back to me. "Do you know a lot about Russian writers?"

"Well..." I paused. "I've had a graduate course in the 19th century Russian short story, and I've read a lot since then. Do Russian writers interest you?"

The azure-furred lion smiled at me. "They call me Al. I think 'Aleksandr' doesn't fit well on their tongues. They don't even try my middle names."

"You're Russian?"

"All the way back, I'm told. I was born here. Blood tells."

"It does," I nodded. "Oh, I'm Tristan, by the way."

"Not in the Wagnerian sense, I hope?"

"No," I chuckled. Inwardly, I wasn't quite sure what to make of this young fellow. There appeared to be a brain at least as well exercised as the body. A devastating combination, to be sure.

"Listen, I don't want to intrude - if you'd rather go back to your book, I mean - well, I'd like to hear at least a little more about the Russian writers that you studied. Could I buy some sodas for us, and you could tell me more?"

For a long moment, I hadn't the faintest idea what to say. Was I being picked up? Could it be that this incredible specimen of Hunk on the Hoof was asking me on a beachside mini-date? "I'm not particularly busy, actually..."

"I could certainly use a break." He stood up again, calling back over his shoulder. "I'll be back in a little while, guys."

Extending his paw toward me, Aleksandr helped me stand, then picked up the towel I'd been lying on. "Need any help with the sand?" he asked.

Talk about a straight line. "Think I'm fine, thanks." (That and, if you touch me, I'll sprout an erection instantaneously and start baying like a wolf in heat.)

At the concession stand, not far away, Aleksandr purchased a couple of sodas using coins kept in some location that remained secret even after he had paid for the drinks. He must have caught me looking, waved his arm slightly. "I always make sure that I keep high-value coins in my wristband. When I was in Canada, it was loonies and twonies. "

"I can see that paper money would prove a problem," I noted with a smile. He chuckled, just as if I'd actually made a joke. Whatever else might be true about this young fellow, he had a knack for making someone feel reasonably at ease. I really didn't understand much about what was going on, and for some reason, I didn't really care, either. "Canada?" I echoed him.

"I visited relatives in Banff for a few weeks. Beautiful country. Freezing water, even in mid-summer!" He laughed. "I have no idea how they do it. After only a few tries, I put away my swim trunks for the duration of the trip."

"I don't think I could have tried even once," I said ruefully. "Despite appearances, I have no polar relatives in my family tree."

We found a picnic-style table devoid of trash, spilled food, insects, children, and other unpleasantries. He sat across from me and asked, again with no trace of sarcasm, "So, what can you teach me in five minutes or less?"

"Karamzin, Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, and Pushkin," I said. "Those are probably the major players that you'll want to have a look at, starting back in 1799 and up into the early 1900s."

"You got me," he said with a grin. "I recognize Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov."

"Those are the main three," I agreed. "Of those, you probably would most enjoy the short stories of Chekhov - they're actually comparatively short."

Aleksandr grinned. "Define comparatively. Next to War and Peace, anything would be short!"

"True!" I laughed. "A bit of trivia for you: An average translation of War and Peace weighs in at over 587,000 words. And before you ask, no, I've never even attempted to tackle it. I'm not certain that I'll be able to live that long." I held up a paw to forestall him. "Don't try to guess my age; I'm easily deflated."

"Okay. Don't try to guess mine then. Fair?"

"Fair enough." Mentally, I put him at around 24 or 25 - a very respectable age for a young stud. "If you can stand it, let me give you a little literary history then. There was a time when the word count for a short story was anything under about 20,000 words - roughly defined as 'a tale to be read in a single sitting.' After that came the novelette, which stretched out to about 50,000 words. A 'short novel' or novella carried up to about 90,000 words, at which point you were in the world of the fully-fledged novel. Some perspective for you: George Orwell's Animal Farm is only about 30,000 words. Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 is a about 46,000 words. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye is about 73,000 words. Huckleberry Finn is about 109,000."

The lion looked at me with an amused disbelief. "You watch Jeopardy, don't you?"

I laughed. "Oh, I'm a wealth of useless information. It's a good thing you only asked for five minutes. When it gets around to ten minutes or so, half of my audience is usually asleep."

"I doubt that," he said, with just the slightest bit too much sincerity. I caught the inflection, and my eyes flickered just for a moment. He smiled quickly, raised his soda in a gesture to continue. "So ... how do the Russian short stories stack up?"

Shaking off the sensation, I said, "Certainly within the 20,000 word parameters. The trouble with western literature - particularly these days - diminishing attention spans demand much shorter works. Today, a novel is considered to be about 50,000 words, not counting J. K. Rowling, of course." The lion chuckled. "Back in the 60's and 70's, a short story submitted to literary contests could run up to only 5000 words, and in short story contests these days, it's as few as 2000 words."

"That seems hardly enough to get started." Aleksandr seemed genuinely surprised. "Are authors really restricted so much now?"

I shrugged. "An established writer can write just about whatever he wants, I suppose. Neil Gaiman wrote a chilling tale called 'Nicholas Was' in only 100 words - a response to a challenge, as I recall. In any case, it doesn't matter all that much; suffice it to say that Russians really could write something smaller than a tome when it suited them. A great many historical changes led them to try the shorter forms. There was a lot of Russian nationalism in the arts during the 19th century, particularly in music - Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, and so on."

"Those are some names I recognize," said the handsome lad, smiling. "Every Christmas, we dust off the nutcracker - a replica, but of the classic design - and the favorite selections from the symphony come out. I've always loved that. It wouldn't be Christmas without it. And the Firebird Suite?" He shook his head gently, his magnificent mane dancing. "Beautiful."

"We have that in common, I dare say." And it was a dare, I realized just a few seconds too late. The pause between us lasted just one or two seconds too long. I sought a segue, but Aleksandr beat me to it.

"So," said my young companion. "If I were to begin reading Russian short stories, where should I start? Chronologically?"

"That's how our class was taught." I sipped some soda to soothe a dry throat. "Nikolay Karamzin is credited with writing the first Russian short story back in 1799, called 'Sad Liza' or 'Poor Liza,' depending upon the translation."

"That sounds like a Cat Stevens song."

Forgetting myself for a moment, I sang, "She hangs her head and cries on my shirt..."

Without missing a beat, the lion lad picked up the tune. "She must be hurt very badly."

"Tell me what's making you sadly?"

Aleksandr's eyes reflected the gentle smile on his muzzle. "I love that song." His eyes held mine for just a moment longer that I wanted to admit. "You sing it beautifully."

"Thank you," I murmured. I broke the gaze, coughed - yeah, real smooth, Tris old boy. "Karamzin," I said trying to get back to the topic. "The story is a fairly simple one, actually - the narrator tells a story not so much of romance as of the end of romance. He stops frequently to question his indulgence in telling the tale, asking why he should speak of something so very sad, and why would he not tell a happier story? He moans and agonizes throughout. In modern times, it would probably be considered much too melodramatic."

"It sounds more like a lamentation," the lion said softly. "Told in a different way, it would be a poem. Instead, he wrote it as a story."

"You're quite perceptive, lad," I said with genuine admiration. "Literature major?"

"No, literature lover." Aleksandr looked down at his drink for a moment, then looked back at me. "I took a fairly cheap way out, I suppose. Computers. Very practical." He smirked. "Logic for breakfast, process for lunch, and miles of code for dinner. In between, snacks of troubleshooting and debugging, flavored by bosses who keep changing what they want, and do-it-yourselfers who are absolutely sure that they know what they're doing."

He turned away, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I guess that's not very fair."

"Maybe not. But it's real."

Aleksandr looked into my eyes, registering faint surprise. He paused again, then took up his original thread. "Anyway, once I found that the bills were paid, and the job reasonably secure, and that I hadn't disappointed my parents, I tried going back to what I really enjoy. I read a lot."

"What's 'a lot,' these days?"

"Well, maybe not so much. I aim to read about 30 books per year. I usually make it."

"In fact, you surpass it," I guessed. Damned if he didn't blush, or start to. "I think the American average is less than 10 per year, and about 25% of the country doesn't read any books at all. Not encouraging for the modern writer, is it?"

"I'll consider it my duty to keep the average up," he smiled. "I guess I'm playing hooky today. My friends got me to come out here to play volleyball, when the truth is, I'd otherwise be sitting under a shade tree in my back yard and reading something vaguely incomprehensible to them." He laughed a little, shook his beautiful, thick mane. "I don't mean to put them down. It's just something that I can't share with them. They're more comfortable with a beach ball."

"Perhaps I--" I froze in mid-sentence, suddenly feeling that I needed to be anywhere but where I was. I started to get up. "Excuse me, I think maybe I should..."

A firm yet gentle blue paw covered my own on the table. "Tristan, wait." I paused as he continued. "Sit down. Please?"

I did, although I couldn't tell you why, then or now. My stomach was ice, my head a little dizzy with the day's heat. I shivered slightly, the fur across my shoulders and back shifting suddenly out and back again. Some would take that as a sign of impending fight-or-flight, possibly as a threat or an insult. Aleksandr looked deeply into my eyes, taking his paw off of mine yet keeping it near.

"I think," he said softy, "that you were about to say something?"

I gulped, feeling trapped. "I was being foolish. Forgive me. Besides, I think our five minutes is up."

"Can I apply for an extension?"

"I might be a bad risk."

"I don't think so." The lion looked at me with something that I might almost call compassion. "You were going to say something. Please say it."

"I'm afraid to."

"Why?"

Everything in me felt smaller, weaker, more and more frightened. "Aleksandr," I said, tasting the name, savoring it even as I felt as if I should never say it again. "I think I may not be very good company at this point."

"Why?"

I smiled a crooked smile. "You don't make this easy. I should go."

"Please don't. I feel like I've hurt you."

"No, not you." I looked him in the eye. "As ridiculous as it sounds, I let myself feel something that I had no business feeling, and it's made me--"

"What are you feeling?"

"Needful." I said it without thinking. I regretted it instantly. I looked up into his eyes, my body tensing as if in anticipation of being struck. I hate feeling like this. I hate being in a place I shouldn't be, wanting something I'm not allowed to have, wishing for something that can never be.

Aleksandr considered me carefully for a long moment, as if reading my thoughts. "Would you take a walk with me?" When I didn't answer right away, he said softly, "Just down the beach a bit. There's a place not far from here that's a little quieter. Usually, at least. I just want to talk for a little bit."

"Your friends are expecting you back."

"I'm sure they'll learn to live with their disappointment."

I burst out with a laugh, more of nervousness than anything else, but Aleksandr seemed happy with my apparent mirth. "Okay," I said finally. "I think I'm able to walk a short distance without becoming too exhausted to make my way back." The young lion looked alarmed for just a moment; I held up a paw. "Joke," I said. "I don't do marathons, and even jogging is probably not a good idea. I can still walk. Usually."

He smiled. "I promise not to sign us up for the hiking trails."

For the first few minutes of our walk, we said very little to each other. I kept looking down at the sand, and if I'm to be completely honest, at his paws as well. The old joke about males with big paws isn't based on fact; however, I've always been attracted to males with strong paws, because I've always loved being able to rub them. I've put a few males to sleep with my massages. Despite my wishes that something else might happen, it was really quite satisfying to make them so relaxed.

We were away from the majority of people at the beach by this time, nearer to the rocky outcroppings that decorated the edges of the preserved wetlands area. I chanced my arm and asked, "So, comrade Aleksandr... what's on your mind?"

After a pause, he said, "Do you find me attractive?"

I stopped. Aleksandr also stopped, turned back to look at me as I stood gape-mouthed with disbelief. "Are you serious?"

Another pause, then: "Yes."

I shook my head slightly to clear it, remembered my manners. "Please forgive me, Aleksandr; I didn't mean to be rude. In my opinion, you're probably the most beautiful male I've ever set eyes upon, much less had the opportunity to speak with. I simply don't understand how you could think that you weren't attractive."

"It's not that." His face flickered, brought on a sadness that almost broke my heart. "Everyone thinks I'm handsome, or so it seems. And I'm not upset by that." He smiled ruefully. "I work out, keep myself fit; if I really didn't like how I looked, maybe I would just let myself go. I don't think I could, though. I'm too used to myself being like this."

He sat down on an outcropping of rock, looked up at me. "Do I intimidate you?"

"I certainly wouldn't want you angry with me," I said, chuckling softly. I stopped when I realized that he wasn't following suit. Something in my head was starting to click. I sat down nearby. "Yes," I said to him. "That's what you're talking about, isn't it? You asked me to tell you what I was feeling."

The lion nodded, his great mane dancing gently about his shoulders. "And you couldn't."

I sighed. "Aleksandr, I'm an old bear with a lot of years of self-denial and self-doubt built up around an ego that is larger than Canada but as fragile as sugar glass. I think of myself as fat and ugly, and I don't usually go to the beach for any reason... unless it's winter, and I can walk along an abandoned beach with cold gray skies for a cloak and my unhappy imagination for companionship."

His eyes held great pain. "Why do you think of yourself like that?"

"Because in a public venue that's based entirely on visual components, it's you that they want, my young fellow. Youth. Musculature. That sense of spring, of sap rising in trees and in the loins. By comparison, I'm old, fat, and ugly. I was told that to my face, those exact three words, in exactly that way. It's not an assessment that is easily dismissed."

There was a moment where I thought he might actually cry, although I chalked that up to my own romantic foolishness. Aleksandr considered for a moment, then asked, "Would it surprise you to know that my various friends over there - all those muscle-bound jocks - have never once talked to me about literature? If I say anything that begins with something along the lines of, 'I read something the other day,' I get shouted down, or just ignored. I know at least half of these guys went to college; I have no idea how they passed, or even if they did pass. I thought once that the only book they'd ever read was The Joy of Gay Sex. Now I realize that they probably only looked at the pictures."

I found nothing to say to this. He looked at me and continued. "Maybe I'm being cruel to them. They're good people. Perhaps they're not very deep, by some measures, and that's okay; not everyone joins the Book of the Month Club. I'm just frustrated by not having anyone to talk to about books, or art, or films. I'm so tired of being thought of as something beautiful and shallow."

"Aleksandr, I never meant--"

"I intimidated you too." He went on, not angrily, but with an edge to his voice. "What were you going to say earlier? Were you going to ask me if you could continue talking with me, discuss literature? You were going to offer that, to answer my need for someone to talk to about it. And you stopped, because you were intimidated by me. Afraid. Afraid of what, exactly?"

I hesitated. I felt embarrassed and caught up in my own lack of self-esteem.

"Please," he said, so softly that I almost didn't hear him. "Please tell me."

"Yes," I said, shame-faced. "I was afraid that I wasn't worthy of your attention. How could I dare think about ... about being well thought-of by someone as handsome as you." I made myself look into his eyes. "Handsome males like you have no need of an old bear who talks too much. If I asked you to spend more time with me, you'd laugh at me. How dare I think that someone like you would want to be with someone like me?"

He considered me carefully for a long moment. He really did look like he wanted to cry, and he might even do it, if he didn't find a better way out of this strangely tragic moment. "Can you look at me," he said, "and think of me as ugly?"

I shook my head. "No. The only thing that could make you ugly would be an ugly personality, a shallow and hurtful soul, and I know now that you would never be like that."

"Not intentionally." He sniffed, as if perhaps he had wanted to ward off a tear. "Maybe that's the second best thing - can you look at me and see past my body?"

"With difficulty," I said, straight-faced. As I started to smile, he began laughing, and I joined with him. He had a fine laugh, when he let himself go. I found myself wanting to help him make that beautiful laugh more often - if I had the chance.

He let the laughter wind down, and he looked into my eyes again. "Tristan, you are the first male I've spoken with for months, perhaps even years, who wanted to hear what I really wanted to say. You talked to me about literature, which is all but unknown to much of the crowd I've found myself with. You're listening to me now. It means a lot to me."

"Aleksandr..." I sighed. "Let me tell you what's in my mind, so that it won't be a barrier between us. You are truly, amazingly, agonizingly handsome. The reason I backed off is because I let myself want you, fully, intimately, based only upon those few minutes we spent together. I can safely guess that you didn't take me aside to begin a campaign of seducing me. If you really did have that in mind, I could save you the trouble and simply surrender right here!"

He snorted a laugh and looked rueful. I spared him, holding up a paw. "That's not what you wanted from me. You wanted someone to talk to. That only made you more attractive. Perhaps I'm just feeling some kind of lust at first sight - not uncommon in us older guys - but it got more intense when I realized just how intelligent and emotionally open you are. Singing a verse of a Cat Stevens song? That would steal this old bear's heart in a New York minute."

The lion paused, looking (if you'll pardon the expression) sheepish. "It wasn't a come-on."

"I know, lad. I would love for it to have been, but--"

"No," he said, "I mean... I guess I mean that I wasn't faking, playing a part. I really do love that song. And I meant it when I said that you sing well."

I felt flustered. "Well... thank you?" I sort of asked. "I'm not sure what to say."

Aleksandr opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn't sure what to say either.

"I'm going to ask a question," I told him. "A loaded question, mind you, so be prepared." He smiled a little and nodded. "What would you like for us to do next?"

A reddish tinge grew softly below the beautiful blue fur of his cheek bones, and he looked aside for a moment. "Yeah, that's loaded," he smiled. He looked into my eyes. "Would you be disappointed if I said that I'd like to talk more about literature?"

I felt my own smile grow slowly on my muzzle. "No. Strangely enough, my handsome lad, I think I'd be disappointed if you hadn't suggested that." I shrugged, let a paw see-saw in the air a moment. "Not that other alternatives aren't attractive!"

His laugh - once again, that magnificent laughter. His whole body shook with it, good-natured, full of joy and life, clean and open. He lifted a paw to his eye as if to wipe away a tear, and my heart nearly burst with fullness.

"You are so funny," he said, still chuckling. "It's the way you say things sometimes. It's wonderful." He took a breath and suddenly looked concerned. "I didn't just say something stupid, did I?"

I was genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"

"I just didn't want to make light of what you said. I mean, you..." He paused. "I'm feeling clumsy, Tristan. Did I...?"

"You're fine," I said, smiling at him. "I said something that was supposed to be taken lightly, and you laughed. That was the point."

"Was it?" Once again, I saw something in his eyes that belied the number of his years. "Would you... do you hope for those... alternatives?"

"It was a joke."

"I'm just making sure." He looked directly into my eyes. "I thought I might have heard something else in there."

My instinct was to make another joke as quickly as possible, to cover up my embarrassment, to dodge the subject, to derail the conversation. Fortunately, that particular instinct was intercepted by another, better instinct - tell him the truth. "Aleksandr," I said. "You are an old soul." He started to speak, and I held up a paw again. "No, I'm not deflecting. I'm acknowledging that you heard something in my voice and actually had the kindness to ask. And I'm going to answer."

I took a deep breath and exhaled it sharply. "Only a fool would turn down the offer of your affections, Aleksandr. Of course I would wish for that. At first, simply because of your physical perfections. And then, after we had spoken of literature and music, you became even more attractive to me. And after our conversation here..." I smiled ruefully. "I'd be a complete idiot not to fall in love with you, dear one. Deny such a magnificent combination of everything that I could possibly desire? It's simply not on!"

He laughed a little, and I continued. "I think I'm mature enough not to expect anything. And yes, I do want to talk with you more. I love literature, and music, and film, and I am impressed with your intellect, your sensitivity, and your curiosity. I would hope that, after all these years, I'm able to curb my lustful intentions sufficiently to welcome a friend into my world." I paused. "You realize that we'll be talked about?"

"Does that bother you?"

"A sharp increase in the value of my social stock? Hardly! However, I make you a promise: I will never lie about you. I'll never pretend, or hint, or tell others that our relationship is more than it is."

He smiled a little. "And what is it?"

"Wonderful."

Aleksandr smiled hugely and stood. "I couldn't ask for better," he said.

I stood as well, brushed myself off and suggested, "Shall we head back, then?"

"Just one more thing." He looked at me carefully from his several inches of superior height. "Since we're starting a new relationship based on our trust, I'm going to take a risk. I want to be truly myself with you, Tristan, and I'm not sure if you'll like all that I am, but I'm going to take that risk."

With a quick yet incredibly tender move, he leaned toward me and hugged me warmly, tightly, placing his chin on my shoulder, his magnificent mane brushing my face and muzzle. Surprised, I managed to hug him back, holding on for several seconds of absolute affection. He pulled away slightly and looked deeply into my eyes. "Is old Russian tradition," he intoned almost seriously.

I smiled. "Da, comrade! Xorosho!"

His eyebrows attempted to leap off of his face. "You speak Russian?"

"Only the few words," I laughed. "I needed them for a book I was writing."

Still grasping my shoulders, Aleksandr looked at me with open affection and amazement. "Is there no limit to your depths, Tristan?"

I so wanted to say something clever, and nothing occurred. He released me enough to let us begin walking back toward the beach, his arm around my shoulder. "Never mind," the great lion said softly. "I'm just so glad to have found you."

Forgetting all the reasons why I shouldn't, I put my arm around his waist. "Sometimes, you find what you need. Unless, of course, you're looking for your nose."

"What?" Aleksandr laughed.

"There's this short story by Gogol, about a fellow whose nose runs away from him, and he spends the rest of the story looking for it." I leaned against his warm fur. "Trust me - you'll love it."