I can’t sit so I pace the room, throwing glances at the door. He comes in, in a shirt with New York on it that was in my package to him today.
He briefly touches my cheek with his lips.
‘As soon as I saw this shirt I knew you were here’, he says. I can’t tell if he is excited, or embarrassed or both.
We sit down on a bench while Ivanovich sits at the table. I put my hand on his back. I know I can’t hold him, even though I really want to, since the guard is right behind the door with that deceitful window.
‘Sorry I won’t be able to leave you here alone guys’, says Ivanovich. We nod.
‘How are you’, as I say it I know how stupid the question sounds.
‘Well, I am ok. Well…’
I know it’s not true just looking at him. He lost weight and there are sores on his greyish face. For the first time he tells me what the conditions for them are really like.
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