Z. L. Raymond
Room Interlude The parlor was in an old stone building on Dorchester Boulevard that also housed a photocopy store and a medical clinic. There were no signs out front, no advertising. When I rang the bell, a buzzer went off and I walked into a mahogany paneled room with a thin tall man standing behind a desk where a dark-haired woman was sitting. “Hello, I’m Alex,” the man said in a thick Russian accent. “Hello, I am also Alex,” the woman said in a more subtle Russian accent. I wanted to say I was also Alex, but instead made as if I was going to shake their hands. “Turn around please.” I looked at him. His nose was thin and long, bisecting a pale face that was all angles and smooth skin. I pivoted on my left foot. Alex and Alex looked at each other, antilang. no. 9
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