Praha Matka Mest
Derrik grasped the smooth stone of the Charles Bridge under his hands, feeling the history underneath his fingertips. Another man drew up behind him, scarf lazily drifting against his wool coat in the winter dawn.
“Why Prague?” he asked.
“It has a certain romance to it. Praha matka mest, the Czech called it. The mother of cities. It’s beautiful,” Derrik said with a glint in his cloudy blue eyes.
“You can’t see it.”
“But I can feel it; I can smell it; I can live it.”
The other man said nothing.
“I can hear your breathing,” Derrik said. “You’re embarrassed.”
“No I’m not.”
“No you’re not.” Derrik smiled.
”...Kristina told me to tell you that she left.”
Derrik was quiet for a long time. “Then I suppose I’ll have to, too.”
“I suppose so.”
“Goodbye, friend.” Dmitri stared at the waters of the Vltava as Derrik’s cane clicked on the stone of the bridge, until it faded away completely.
The river increased by one cubic millimeter with a single tear.