“You’re called?”
My neck twisted and my eyes moved up to his to see his looking at down me.
“What?” I asked.
“Name, babe.”
“Anya.”
He stared at me.
Then he asked, “Anya?”
“Anya,” I confirmed.
“Anya,” he repeated and I nodded. “And you think my name’s unusual?”
“Yes, I’ve never met anyone named Knight,” I informed him.
“And I’ve never met anyone named Anya,” he informed me. “What is that?”
“What is what?”
“Your name.”
“It’s a family name. As in, my grandmother’s.”
“Before that,” he stated.
“It was her grandmother’s,” I shared.
“And before that,” he pushed then explained, “Origins.”
“Russian,” I told him.
“You’re Russian?” he asked.
“My grandmother was,” I answered.
“She grow up here?” he asked.
“No, she grew up in St. Petersburg when it was called Leningrad. But she died here.”
His head cocked slightly to the side but his face remained impassive. “Died?”
I nodded. “Seventeen years ago.”
“Babe, what are you? Twenty-three? Four?”
“Seven.”
His head righted. “Twenty-seven?” He sounded like he didn’t believe me.
“Yes, twenty-seven.”
He studied me but didn’t give anything away.
Then he stated, “Still, she had to be young.”