The path was dusty and shone brilliantly with colored
speckles of broken glass. His feet crunched happily as the smell of samsi and gamburger rose to meet him. A few drops of rain fell from a wisp of
a cloud above, confusing the flowers in the mid-day sun. Through an opening in
the trees he saw three well-dressed men, cross-legged in the grass, a small
shrine of vodka and glasses arranged neatly between them. Was it a lunch break
for businessmen? Or a session of a local pensioners club? He wondered why they
didn’t sit on a bench or at least a blanket. He hurried on, not wanting his
lunch to get cold and not wanting to get caught in the rain.
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