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He nods as he slices his fork through his baklava. “I remember, back before I moved to the States, Russia were fighting with the U.S and we were in the middle of it all.”
“I’m sorry.”
He laughs. “You weren’t even born. What do you have to be sorry for? No, I was sad the communists were beat actually, they had some good ideas.”
Stef shakes his head, smiling.
“You were born here though?” His grandfather asks.
“Brooklyn.”
“I came here in the sixties. I was following my sweetheart.” His face lights up. I fucking love it when old people are still in love.
“How long have you been married Sir?”
“Forty-six years before she passed two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He waves his hand. “We had a good life, lots of talented grandkids. Which is lucky, considering we only had two kids and that wasn’t a lot in my day. Do you have siblings Alexei?”
“A little sister.”
He nods. When he glances out into the restaurant where everyone’s resumed eating, talking and drinking, he gets a thoughtful look in his eyes.
“Things were very different around here back then. Now they want to build luxury apartment buildings for yuppies from the city. Drive the rent prices up for the locals. We’ve been trying to fight it, but it’s an uphill battle.”
I nod.
“You know what I mean, you’re from Brooklyn, what’s your rent, like ten thousand a month?” He laughs.
I force a smile, but I know how hard it is to live in New York City these days. It’s where my family’s business is, and I don’t want them to have to move just because our old neighborhood’s being gentrified and swooped on by property developers.
“What do you study Alexei?”
“Finance.”
He whistles. “You’ll be fine then.”
“He plays hockey too,” Stef says.
He’s been so quiet, I would have forgot he was there if his presence wasn’t so big and all-consuming. Honestly, I’ve been trying not to stare at him in awe since seeing him perform and realizing how talented he is.
“Ice hockey? You going to play in the NHL?”
“No way,” I smile, putting my fork down and dabbing my mouth on a napkin. “I just play for fun now.”
“He’s good though,” Stef says. “He scored a goal in the last game I watched.”
“Maybe I’ll come out and see the team play sometime.”
“Any time you like Sir, I’ll get you a ticket right up front, close enough to see the action.”
He throws his head back laughing and in that moment, he looks about twenty years younger.
Stefanos’ dad gives me a huge take-out bag when I’m leaving along with the food donations, shaking my hand along with Stef’s grandfather. The waitress plants a sloppy kiss on each cheek and calls me handsome before letting me go, my face burning.
It’s dark out now. The streets still busy from all the restaurants, convenience stores and a late-night laundromat.