That day he had sold quite a few of his piroshki.
But it didn't make him particularly
happy. I should start packing up,
there's nothing more to sell,
he said to himself. But he didn't want
to go home yet.
Should I go home now or later? And
when is "later"?
He began packing up, but stopped
after a moment. He had the idea of
not going home at all. He'd
take out all his money from the bank
and disappear to California. With
a sigh, he started packing again. He
would go home, after all. He hesitated
for a split-second and listened to
the nocturnal hum of the city.
I like that rhythm, too. It reminds me of swashing of the sea.