Lada arrived for the final two prints on Friday, when Aleksandar had already removed the sign from the door. The old printing press was moving to a younger colleague's workshop, and the small pieces of type still needed sorting and packing. For years Lada had framed his cards and small posters. They knew each other well enough to discuss aching backs and bad landlords, but had never shared coffee anywhere that at least one of them was not working.
She said she had an hour and rolled up her sleeves. Aleksandar thought he should pay her for helping, although he knew the offer would offend her. Since his divorce he had lost the habit of someone staying without an order or an invoice. He showed her the drawers. Lada lifted the letters carefully, turning them toward the light like miniature objects with a memory on either side. A dark mark remained on her thumb.
They searched almost half an hour for one missing letter. It was not expensive, and the collection did not have to be complete before the truck arrived. Yet they both checked the floor, table, and apron pockets. Lada found it on the windowsill beside a dead fly. She held it up triumphantly, then paused. "Now we have no excuse," she said. Aleksandar did not immediately know whether she meant packing, leaving, or something that had long stood between their ordinary conversations.
He said he wanted to print one more thing. He prepared a small line of type, painfully aware that his fingers were moving more slowly than usual. Lada waited without peeking. When he lifted the paper, it asked whether she would have dinner with him. There was no decorative border, date, or former business logo beneath it. Lada said she liked the question but wanted to hear how it sounded when he spoke it.
He repeated it aloud. She accepted and admitted deliberately extending her hour of help. The truck arrived before they finished, so they filled the last drawers alongside its driver. Once the press was removed, the room looked indecently large. Aleksandar stood where he had chosen paper for years. Lada did not hurry him into celebrating freedom. She simply stayed beside him until he switched off the light himself.
The restaurant he had planned was full. They ate in a small place across the street with their coats on the neighboring chair. Lada tried to wipe the dark mark from her thumb with a napkin, then abandoned the attempt. Aleksandar took her hand across the table. The next day she framed his last print but did not immediately take it home. She left it behind the counter, where he would see it when he came without a reason connected to work.