[Her explanation had been easy enough to follow, despite her drunkenness -- perhaps because they were both similarly drunk -- but that doesn't mean that the end of her explanation doesn't still feel like a slap in the face, its effect almost instantly sobering for a minute. His eyes narrow, but the expression on his face is carefully contained, little emotion passing over it as he processes what she'd said.]

I see.

[For a few more moments, he's quiet, pouring himself another glass of wine, taking a long sip from it, lighting another cigarette from the remnants of the one he'd just been smoking, and then he looks up at her. His expression is almost completely blank.]

And here I thought things were already bad enough in Russia.