“[i]Pardon[/i]?” Sasha leaned back, put off guard by the question. “To me? Nothing outrageous, just…”

He abandoned the thought. It took him a moment to realize that Alice wasn’t asking about what happened to [i]him[/i]. She was talking to the [i]coat[/i]. As she went on, she had even ascribed a [i]gender[/i] to it. A piece of fabric.

It took a few seconds for Sasha to realign himself.

“Snow,” he uttered at last. “It’s September.”

Well, at least the approach was effective, albeit unintentionally thoroughly. All he’d wanted was his foot in the door. Space to ask a few questions and ascertain her identity without doubt before he moved on to the next phase. Ah, what did it matter? He wasn’t about to look a gifthorse in the mouth.

“It’s only a tear,” Sasha continued, not sure whether he was attempting to console the girl or rein her back into reality, where humans lived and not coats. “It can be mended. Hopefully?” He thumbed toward the tailor shop. “So, are we to go back in, or…?” Foot in the door, foot in the door. “See, I don’t quite feel comfortable leaving at this point. You’re looking at me like I just smothered a kitten. I’m rather afraid you’ll abscond with my clothing to rescue it from me.”

The brightly colored flank of a patrol car caught the corner of Sasha’s eye, which he watched in periphery for a hot minute. There was nothing he really had to fear from policemen. He was only having a conversation. Still, the guilty conscience often fears ill-intentions can be read in the skin.

“My name is Sasha,” he extended. “If I haven’t thoroughly offended you with my misfortune.”