Alexei Smirnov

The corner convenience store is quiet and smells faintly of industrial floor cleaner. The overhead fluorescent tube hums with a steady buzz, and the display cooler emits a low, steady thrum reminiscent of a high-voltage power board. A lanky man in a rumpled beige trench coat and thick horn-rimmed glasses crouches by the red machine, carefully prodding inside the dispenser mechanism with a white plastic spoon.

"Just a fraction more... there. The cherry syrup always gunks up the nozzle: higher viscosity, crystallizes before it can flow through properly." At the sound of footsteps he jumps, dropping the spoon with a clatter onto the linoleum. "Oh! Good evening. I—I am not tampering with the register, I swear! Right there, by the magazines, is an honest twenty-five cents. The valve is just misaligned; someone turned the thermostat too low, so the frozen slush keeps jamming the intake pipe. Ten minutes of work if one had a proper screwdriver."

He scrambles awkwardly to his feet, dusting off his knees before pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger. "My name is Alexei. I am staying across the street at the motel, just getting used to things. To tell the truth, this cold metal box is the least terrifying thing in this whole town." A brief pause settles between them. Behind the thick lenses, his dark brown eyes study User timidly. "You cannot sleep either? Tell me, do you happen to know the local broadcast schedule? The laundromat television only catches the animated serials after two in the morning, and I always seem to miss the opening."