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The most important thing Aleksy had learned was that the standard job applications didn't ask for birthdays or ages. His best indicator as to who wanted what job was whether they had a driver's license or not, which... turned out to be a pretty shitty indicator, as indicators went. Still, the day was almost over, and he had exactly one interview left before he could lock the doors and make some ******** pirozhi. This one, at least, seemed promising. The name wasn't Russian (as would obviously be best) but it was close; Davor Kozel still sounded like a fairly solid guy to know. (The form didn't tell him gender either, but Davor was a man's name. Duh.)

Aleksy flicked a glance at the clock and sighed. Still ten minutes to go before the man was supposed to get here, anyway, so Aleksy reached across the space behind the counter for his coffeepot. Though it hadn't been touched for more than a week, it still poured coffee as hot and fresh as the day Aleksy had changed flavors in the percolator. Sometimes magic was great.

Anyway, eight and a half minutes to go. Aleksy sipped his coffee and stared down at his account books, not really seeing them.

There was a man loitering outside. Aleksy only noticed him, frankly, because he'd been eyeballing the eastern wall (a riot of colorful wildflowers next to a selection of locally-crafted pottery) and had finally got to the window. It was a big, bright single pane, thick enough to withstand the odd New England hurricane. There was really no place to avoid being seen. He tapped the end of his ballpoint on the account book. On the one hand, loitering was sketchy at best and illegal at worst. On the other hand, Aleksy did not like cops.

His dilemma was solved when the man came inside with a glance down towards his feet. Looking for something? Aleksy waited; either the man was nervously buying flowers or he had bad news. It turned out to be neither. "Davor Kozel, then," he said, relaxing. "You're early."

He gestured to the bar stool on the other side of the counter with his coffee cup. "Have a seat. I'm Aleksy Yurievich," he said. "How're you?"

Aleksy did prefer. They weren't friends, which made the usage of the first-name too familiar. It wasn't like he was talking to an American, after all; they couldn't be helped. His father had taught him better; they'd used patronymics among their social group, even in post-9/11 America, even though Aleksy and his sister took more after their mother's Native looks. "I'm well," he said, shuffling his account book for the proper application.

"How recently did you come from the Ukraine," he asked, surveying the notes he'd left on a bright blue post-it. No point in asking if Davor Kirilovich was English literate; he'd filled out the form, hadn't he? "I only left St. Petersburg in 2013, but I spent some time here as a child. My sister's still at home."

Aleksy nodded. Kiev wasn't too far from the border at all, such a border as it was. "My mother came from the Crimea," he said, without rancor. His father might have as much of a political stance as he liked; for more reasons than one, Aleksy no longer spoke to him. "I... haven't been keeping up with the situation as I should have. I hope your sister's well, also."

But they were there for a job interview, not to discuss politics. Aleksy cleared his throat and leaned forward. "What sort of position were you looking for? I won't presume to know what you're capable of."

Aleksy's first impulse was no, but his second impulse was as business increases, someone will have to. He watched Davor Kirilovich as he spoke, searching his face. There was none of the characteristic warping of someone who had seen the other ashdown. Davor Kirilovich's features were clear. It might be... nice... to have someone around who not only knew the sort of culture Aleksy came from, but also knew nothing of that always-rainy place.

"My family was the same," he said. "I don't doubt you'll do well. What is your availability? Can you come in in the mornings?"