“Why do you have such a weird suitcase?” Velika asked the young man once she’d purchased her stuffed toy from the merchant. She didn’t understand what he could possibly want to put in there.
“It’s called a portfolio,” Anton explained. “You put big pieces of paper in there. Drawings. Or paintings. Or big prints.”
“Oh,” she said. “Are you a painter?”
“I’m kind of an artist,” he said. “But not yet. I’ll have to study first.”
“I also have to study,” Velika said earnestly. “I’ll be a doctor.”
*
Zitko furrowed his brow looking over his portfolio. His investments hadn’t just decreased in value, the company had gone bust. And worst of all, he had to tell Ivelina. She’d warned him not to put all his eggs into one basket, and he’d been too proud to listen to her, intent that he was the man, the one who understood finances. He should’ve known better. He had known better. Not knowing how to tell her, he printed the overview out and left it on the table with a scribbled note saying “sorry”, then went for a walk.
No comments:
Post a Comment