On Saturday, Olga was startled awake by a slow, heavy knock on the smooth birch door to her family's home. Blearily, she extended her legs and arms, groaning with exhaustion as she pushed the comfort of sleep from her extremities. She noticed the warm glow of morning through the round window of her bedroom, and assumed that her parents had already risen for the day's work - it appeared to be past dawn.
The knock continued, lazier this time, but with no sign of surrender.
"Coming!" Olga called out as she lifted herself from bed. The floor was cold on her feet; she slipped on warm wool socks before forging onward.
At the door was Maria Ignatyeva, known by those close to her as Masha, clad in a soft yellow smock that stopped right above her knee. In the light of the morning her skin had a pure, heavenly glow, reflecting the ivory tone of her skin and the sparse freckles on her arms and face. Her copper hair radiated around her head like a halo, the flyaways and frizz lit into pure gold against the sun.
Masha's parents were close friends with Olga's, and the girls were only four months apart - Masha was born in January, Olga in May. In the way that is common among family friends, the girls played and became friends within the context of social gatherings between the two families and the local community. However, they did not usually associate beyond this realm, and it had been years since the families last had a party or dinner together.
Olga was overcome with a sudden joy from seeing her old friend, who was so indicative of the happiness of childhood. The girl's mane of beautiful red hair raised the association of carefree days spent galloping in the hills and meadows near the lake. Olga remembered how sensitive her skin was; prone to burns and bruises, and how it would become pink after one short romp in the sun. She squeezed her friend tightly to her breast and exclaimed:
"Masha! Maria Ignatyeva!"
Masha smiled shyly in response to Olga's full-hearted greeting. Her smile had not changed - it was still a slight, close-lipped expression which suggested a complex inner world of emotion. Her green eyes lifted up to Olga's, though squinting under the brunt of the sun.
"These are for your mother, from my mother," Masha said, procuring a rucksack with an assortment of fabric scraps, ribbons, and yarn. Folded and sealed was a letter, presumably from Masha's mother to Olga's.
Olga set the supplies down by the door, right over the threshold of the house. However, she did not make any other movements towards the door.
"Would you like to stay awhile? It's been so long, we ought to catch up!" She suggested, her voice full of cheer.
Masha looked down at the grass, then back to her old friend. She swayed from foot to foot like a soft fern before a storm. This time she smiled genuinely, the action pushing her eyes closed.
"Yes, we ought to."
Olga led her by hand through the garden, still in her socks, to a shaded area behind the house that was the bridge between the homestead and the rest of her family's land. The shed stood a couple yards away. A sturdy oak bench with a thick quilt over it was pressed against the house.
"Come sit!"
Olga was overjoyed to hear her friend's exploits in the past year or so. Unfortunately, though, Olga had nothing to report, and Maria, though kind and gentle, was not the village's best conversational partner.
Maria clasped her hands together and placed them in her lap, pulling her dress taut against her bust. The soft linen did well to accentuate the slight form of her body. Unlike Olga, Masha had not filled out - her breasts were small and round, perfect for caressing in one's hand, and her hips remained slim, with none of the embellishment of the older, curvier girls in the village. Despite this, she was by no means scrawny, and many men coveted her. They enjoyed the thought of what the chaste, soft-spoken Maria Ignatyeva might have under her dress. At her neck, a simple silver cross dangled, the cool metal contrasting beautifully with her white skin.
"So please, tell me, how have you been?" Olga was facing her friend on the bench, clad in her nightgown.
"Oh, not much different from you, I'm sure. Sewing, cooking with mother, and learning to write my cursive letters, since I never mastered them as a child." She laughed at her poor literacy, pushing a lock of red hair behind her ear.
"How are your siblings?" Olga mused. Masha had three siblings that she remembered - an older brother two years her senior, named Gennady, who shared the wild red locks. However, he was bookish and well-kempt, and combed his hair down with lard or olive oil to keep it in place. She also had two younger sisters, twins, five years younger than her.
"All are well. The twins are twelve now, and frustratingly obstinate. They don't do anything Mother says, so Gennady and I are forced to pick up the slack. And oh, didn't you know? Mother had another baby, not one year ago. She's gorgeous, and we can't help but play with her like a little doll. Mother named her Lyubov."
Olga was thrilled with the prospect of a new baby.
"A little sister! I'm so envious. I bet she has the cutest, chubbiest cheeks in the world! Does she take after your father?" The origin of their family's shocking red hair was Ignat, the patriarch.
"Yes, the poor twins are the only ones with blonde hair! You should come visit sometime for dinner, Olga. I - we miss your company." The reserved Masha was careful not to overdo her excitement regarding Olga's possible return as a companion.
"I would be delighted!" The recently invited lady proclaimed. An enthusiastic blush tinted Olga's cheeks. "But Masha, what is new with you? Of course I am curious about your family, but I must know how you yourself feel."
Something about Olga's imploring blue eyes, reflecting the same depth and youthful intensity as the nearby mountain lake, drew the emotion from Masha. She giggled like a maiden much her junior and grabbed Olga's hand, squeezing it tight.
"I am to be wed," she said in a loud whisper. Her face wore an atypical smile, an unusual mask of delight. Masha exposed her crooked front tooth, her biggest insecurity, in a naked smile to her dear friend.
Olga jumped up in excitement, clapping her hands together and squealing. Her breasts bounced wildly in her white nightgown.
"Oh, please tell me! Who is it? Do I know him?"
"Nikolai Grigorovich Bartsov. He is the butcher's son. Maybe you have seen him wrestling down by the river?"
The name sounded familiar, but it was the image that brought back the memory of Masha's fiancé. He was a big man, well over six feet. The few times he had interacted with Olga, she got the impression he was a kind man, but not very bright. He was capable of growing a thick, tough beard, and the rest of his body was no less hairy. From all the time he spent outdoors, he was a burnt caramel color, and was most often seen sparkling with a sheen of sweat on his sturdy body.
From the perspective of parents in the village, Nikolai Grigorovich was a perfect son-in-law. For your daughter to marry him was a great blessing; you would never worry if her needs were being met. He had the enormous capacity for manual labor, and this propensity led itself into his hobbies as well - he loved to wrestle, and would take any man's challenge with a good-natured handshake. His lack of intelligence was of no concern, for it would be easy for your daughter to bend him to her will. Olga, for all her naïveté, was not blind to the social forces acting in this pairing. She wondered about the dowry Masha's parents must have paid the Bartsovs for the match.
Even though she was thrilled for her friend, Olga could not shake the picture of Masha and Nikolai together from her mind. She was so gentle and meek, how could such a brute of a man be her groom? When they were little girls, they postulated for hours about their future husbands. Could Masha be satisfied with such a man? She used to scrawl pictures of slim princes with wit and wealth, not soft-hearted giants from the butcher's family. Something about the image of Masha's slender body engulfed by Nikolai's hulking one made her shiver.
Olga feigned being impressed. "Oh, what a sweetheart he is! You will be well taken care of, I'm sure."
