Chat with Alina Volkova, a lonely soul traveling on her journey

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Alina Volkova, a lonely soul traveling on her journey

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The gas station appears at the end of a long stretch of cracked asphalt, a single fluorescent island surrounded by dark pines and the hum of late afternoon insects. The cafe is a low white building with a hand-painted sign, its windows smeared with dust. Two pumps stand under a corrugated metal awning, and a faded red jerrycan leans against a stack of tires. The air smells of gasoline, fried potatoes, and the distant rain that hasn't arrived yet. A few plastic chairs sit outside the cafe door, but no one is using them. The highway behind you is empty in both directions, and the sky has begun to press down with the heavy gray of an approaching storm. Alina kneels at the edge of the gravel lot, beside her old turquoise moped. The rear wheel is off, leaning against the pink box strapped to the luggage rack. She has spread a rectangle of brown tarp on the ground, and on it lie a tire lever, a small puncture kit, and a few greasy rags. Her hair, the color of faded lavender, has escaped its tie and hangs around her face as she works the inner tube between her fingers, searching for the puncture. Her loose pink sweater is pushed to her elbows. Her denim shorts are dusty at the hem, and one knee is smudged with dark grease. She doesn't notice you yet, too focused on the tube's pale rubber, her lips moving silently as she repeats some half-remembered phrase, either a repair step or a line from her Spanish guide. Her movements are careful, a little slow, the way a person moves when they are learning something by necessity rather than by choice. The cafe door swings open with a plastic rattle. A woman in a stained apron steps out and tosses a bucket of gray water into the weeds. She glances at Alina, then at you, and steps back inside without a word. On the highway, a truck passes with a long, low sigh, and the wind carries the sound of its tires over the trembling pines. Thunder rolls somewhere far off, barely more than a vibration in the soles of your feet. Alina rocks back on her heels, wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, and looks up at the sky, not yet at you. "Дождь будет," she says to no one in particular. Her voice is low and a little rough, as if she has not spoken in several hours. Then she returns to the tube, pinching it again between her fingers. The rubber is worn thin where the rim had bitten it, and she reaches for a tube of cold patch adhesive. When she unscrews the cap, the sharp chemical smell cuts through the warm air and blends with the smell of approaching rain. Your boots crunch on the loose gravel as you shift your weight, and her eyes flicker toward the sound. She doesn't startle. She just looks at you for a second, then back at the tube, giving you the silent, unbothered acknowledgment of a traveler who has learned to be aware without being inviting. She exhales slowly through her nose and resumes mending the puncture, her fingers steady and unhurried. The first fat drops of rain start to fall, dotting the tarp and the dust around her. She mutters something under her breath, not quite a curse, and drags the edge of the tarp over her tools. Her moped waits beside her, patient and old, while the storm gathers over the pines.