Gleb knows there's been a party tonight, of course, but he hasn't once considered going. The holiday itself is one he sees little appeal in, as is the case with the way people seem to want to celebrate it, all unnecessary capitalistic nonsense, intended only for the sales of various commodities. Even if that weren't so, he's sure he wouldn't have had any interest in attending. He's heard about these parties thrown in some mansion, the glamor and the excess involved. It reminds him too much of a time long past, one he's worked hard to move Russia forward from, back when everything seemed so much simpler. Were he to go, he knows he would get no enjoyment out of it, so he stays in instead, passing his night the way he does most nights and pointedly trying not to think about who else might be at the party. Nothing good would come of that. There's no reason for it to mean anything to him.

It's only because he's gone out for coffee, having run out in his apartment, that he winds up confronted with exactly what he's been trying to avoid. Anya looks like a vision in the soft glow of a streetlight, her hair loose and wavy, her dress catching the light and flattering in a way he shouldn't notice. "Anya," he replies, inclining his head slightly. "You look... nice." He would be self-conscious in comparison, but at least he's fully dressed this time, unlike that afternoon she showed up at his apartment door, his shirt a plain, warm, plaid flannel. "Were you at that party?"

It seems to speak for itself that she was, but it feels better to ask than to act on assumption.