"I'd rather try this Russian local bus this time," Sarah said, "I'm bored of those tiresome taxi-drivers."

"OK," said John, musingly. He would rather stay in the hotel lobby gazing at long-legged putanas (so they call them in Russia, eh?).. Russia is in no way hostile. Maybe somewhat more rusty outside the National hotel facing the Kremlin and the Red Square. His son once learned Russian in his K-12 school and recited a childish poem, something like that:

Как из нашего окна
Площадь Красная видна.
А из нашего окошка
Мавзолей видать немножко.

'What a funny language.. Hard to pronounce "Nimb-nozhka". "Nozhka" means "a petit leg". Maybe, I'm getting mad..,' he thought.

Still, ironically enough, when John was told that this hotel faced the Red Square, he booked a room there. Was it a hotel ad formulated in such an unobtrusive way? Oh, no. Nonsense. They do not have nice ads here. Just something clumsy word-by word, Intourist style. He knew little Russian and mused at two teenagers sitting in front of them calling them spies, a hatingly hissing word "шпионы". Oh, yeah, they have been also brainwashed by the propaganda.

He smiled at the boy, "Шпионы?"

The boy startled and then smiled too, "Oh, no sir, we were joking. You're welcome," his pal and he moved offering them a seat.

John shook his head, "Все нормално," he said with a slight accent.

To tell the truth, John once worked for the CIA, but it was long ago. He had some paper back-office job there. No, no - nothing related to investigation activities. Some analytics. Oh, God, what a tedios job it was. But now everything was alright. They had a small house in rural Mississippi. Finally, when the mortgage was cleared completely, they could travel a bit to make up for what was lost and gone: youth, energy, inspiration, love.

Love. Was it really gone? Or was this detached attachment lingering between them something more than love? John smiled at Sarah and she blushed in response.

"Why, you're blushing!" he said, amazed.

"Oh, rubbish!" she spun round on a turntable as the bus veered clumsily. She fell home-sick.

"Love," he took her by her elbow reassuringly.

"Dear?" she gave him a questioning, hesitating look.

"Let's go home," he said.

"To the hotel?" she looked a bit embarrassed.

"Oh, no. Home. Just home. Where we both belong," he looked intently at her.

"I love you," she closed her eyes to swallow tears, "I. Love. You."

Now the home was everywhere.