Here in Russia, I’m sitting on someone else’s furniture while across the ocean somebody else sits on mine, each of us living for the time being on somebody else’s turf. I flip through pictures of home on my computer for awhile, of goodbye parties and family and a wedding from before I left. I try to use my brain to write something, anything, but it’s like trying to carve a turkey with a butter knife; not enough strength, too dull.
Instead I lie back, stare at the ceiling, and wonder what the fuck everyone I ever knew is doing.
I cross the room and stare into the mirror, thinking that this is the youngest I will ever be, probably the best I will ever look, and think how absurd it is, youth to flourishing for nothing more than a computer monitor and Soviet-era wallpaper.
I move the Christmas cards from the window sill and crank open the cutainless window (Where are all the curtains in Russia?) I feel the cold rush of air hit my face but it’s not cold enough. I want something that hits me like an icy wall, something that freezes the water in every pore, something to wake me up. This is just not cold enough.
Since I can’t find anything to wake me up, I need something to put me to sleep. I meander to the fridge and open the freezer (there’s that cold). I pull out the shared vodka, and pour two fingers into one of the tiny tea cups. Pickles, as a chaser, on the little saucer. Cheese and bread. And then I amble with my sad buffet back to the bedroom. An hour passes, with the vodka, with the food, with Kurt Vonnegut. One more vodka.
In the corner of my eye the monitor watches me. I stare back, at the white document, the black cursor blinking at me expectantly. I shut the computer with a click.
No writing will get done, tonight. It's too quiet.
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