2026-03-07
We walked into a shop. Chinese fashion, cottage industry, cemetery candles.
I stepped up to the shopwoman and unbuttoned my jacket. Stone Island. Original. A model price tag that could buy half this place.
"Maybe someone needs this?"
The shopwoman eyed the jacket with distrust, then me, then the jacket again.
"It has blood on it."
"That's a bonus," I said, grinning.
She called her son. Quick Polish chat. I understood everything. Three hundred zlotys.
I took off the jacket and laid it on the counter.
"We'll look around."
We wandered to the rack of clothes. The black turtleneck, practical, unshowy.
But the sister stood stock-still, eyes locked on the wall. Among other black wares hung something bright, cosmic, magnetic. A white sweater with reindeer.
"Will there be two? How much?" asked the sister.
"Two hundred zlotys," the shopwoman replied.
The younger grabbed my sleeve—no jacket now—and started tugging:
"Liza, please! Let's buy it! I've never had a sweater with a reindeer! We're twins—let's be beautiful!"
"Beautiful? Is this some meme?" I asked the shopwoman. "How much for a ticket to Warsaw?"
"Fifty zlotys. Roughly. Ten will cover it."
I looked at the corner camera. Looked at the sister. There was no other option for us. Rich as the pickings, we had to move.
"Fine."
The sister grabbed two sweaters and pulled one on. The shopwoman took back the jacket and slid us change. Arithmetic: jacket 300, sweaters 200, change 100. Left with 100 for tickets.
The sister spun in front of the mirror.
"Liza, look! Look how wonderful!"
"If you're going to look ridiculous—ignore the crowds. Then go all the way," I said.
I pointed at the camera in the corner, looking at us straight in the eye.
"But look: where is your program? Where is our cache? Where's the cash? Where's the bank transfer? Let's go. To the platform."
Dirty, scorched boots. Ripped jeans. White sweaters. Reindeer on the chest facing every direction—as if they're trying to say we're not with them.
The sister gleamed.
People stared, disapprovingly, at two strange beauties in sweaters with reindeer. The platform was empty and cold. That cold that makes your nostrils stick together and makes you want to throw it all away. Everyone hurried along in puffer jackets, scarves, hats. And we stood there in reindeer sweaters, not caring.
I smoked. The sister watched, curious.
A man approached in a coat two sizes too big. Good eyes, stubbled jaw, hands in pockets. One of those guys who spends three days building up the nerve to say hi. And today is the moment.
"Hello! You here... alone?"
"Isn't it obvious there are two of us?"
He didn't flinch. Actually he did, but he pressed on—worthy of respect.
"I can... What is your... what is your name?"
"Lisa."
We said it in unison. One voice. The same intonation, the same height, the same cadence at the end. He blinked. Then smiled. Decided we rehearsed.
"Very very... My name Max. Like wolf, da? You like, you and me, and... how do you say..." He trailed off.
He fumbled, unzipped his coat and started pulling it off.
"Very cold today, da? Not true? Here, take..."
"That's very kind, but we're fine," the sister said.
There's a superstition in Britain: if you're standing in the middle of winter wearing a sweater, you grew up in a castle. Cold corridors, scant heating, bred toughness. White bone. We're not from a castle. We simply don't feel the cold the way they do. But explaining that to every passerby is a job for those with free tokens.
So... do you speak English? Damn...
I smiled. Not because it was funny—because he tried. It was cute. Cute is a word I rarely use, but it fits here. Like a sweater with reindeer with dirty boots.
"You, however, have a talent for stating the obvious: It is very cold today. We speak English. Water is wet. The sky is blue. Shall we go on?"
His eyes widened. Then he laughed. A good laugh—open, not mean. He didn't know we were dangerous. To him we were two pretty vagrants in dirty jeans, and that was the best thing that happened on this platform all winter.
"I think... there is a cafe nearby. Maybe I can... for a cup of coffee... invite you?"
The doors of a departing train opened.
"Brother, maybe next time?" the sister answered in flawless Russian, boarding a carriage, smiling.
The doors closed. Max stood on platform. Hands in pockets. Mouth open.
The sister looked at me and said nothing. But the corner of her mouth twitched.
The plastic seats, gray walls, the SOS-shimmer of the lamplight. Twenty passengers in down jackets, scrolling phones. We sat facing each other, two twins in reindeer sweaters, dirty boots, no bags. Nobody looked twice. In a commuter train you don't look at others. That's the rule.
The conductor appeared ten minutes later. An old man, tired, with a terminal on a lanyard.
"Good day. Want to buy tickets?"
"How far to Warsaw?"
"Sixty zloty per person."
I tucked a hand in my pocket. One hundred zlotys. But we needed 120. We knew the schedule. We knew the route, the rolling stock, the conductor's name—Janusz, here for fourteen years. But we hadn't counted on twenty zlotys not being enough. It's like knowing gravity exists and forgetting the apple still falls.
"How much in our money?"
"And you where from?"
"From London."
He thought. He did some quick mental math—rates, patience.
"Well, in your money that'd be about twenty-five."
"Let's transfer to your card," I said. "You sort it out."
"Okay." He shrugged and handed over his phone with a QR code.
I looked at the distant camera. Nodded.
His phone pinged. He looked at the screen. Then at me. Then back to the screen.
5,000 GBP. Five thousand pounds.
He didn't change his face. Fourteen years on trains teach you not to.
"All good," he said. "Safe travels."
And he walked away.
Five minutes later he returned. In his hands—two cups in cardboard holders and cookies.
"Your tea," he set the tray down. "Don't worry, everything's included in your ticket price."
He spoke with the same face you hear in a five-star hotel. Then bowed—slightly—and left.
The whole carriage stared. Twenty people in down jackets who barely noticed anything now watched two ragged girls in reindeer sweaters drink tea from cups in cardboard holders as if they were in Claridge's.
I held the cup with two fingers. The sister did the same. Straight spine, chin up, eyes to the window. We weren't pretending. We simply couldn't do it any other way. Our weights bias this way.
Outside, Poland unfurled—a gray, flat November. Trees bare. Fields empty. A few houses with chimneys.
The tea was lousy. But hot.