As soon as Ashley came down the stairs from the subway, which rattles across a bridge over Brighton Beach Avenue, it all came tumbling out: who he really was and that he was married. Every time a train passed overhead it drowned out what he was saying and he would have start over.
Short, but affecting and a little haunting—on the London Review of Books blog, Peter Pomerantsev recounts a story about a short-lived romance, set on Brighton Beach in 1982.
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