happy anniversary

I met Clerk one year ago.

I explain this to my therapist, in tears. I am still so sad, I say. So sad.

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I meet CS at a swanky midtown bar. He is so tall that I have to look up at him, though I am wearing heels. I adjust the straps of my low-cut brown silk tank top.

We have a beer. And then another. The conversation is not easy, like it was with Clerk, but it is not too difficult. He is earnest and friendly. We order fries and talk about travel. CS is Russian, but has not a lick of an accent, having moved to the U.S. at age 13. Suddenly, he seems a lot more interesting. We chat about Russia, about his parents. He hasn’t been back since, but wants to visit soon. “This is the year,” he announces. “So if we go…”

I smile. “That would be fun.”

We finish our drinks and decide to explore another bar. As we walk west on 52^nd Street, we realize we are coincidentally in the Russian district. We spot the Russian Vodka Room across the street. “We gotta go,” he said. “I forgot this was here!”

Inside, it is dark, smoky, and loud. We grab two stools at the end of the bar and order infused vodkas. Rather, he orders, in Russian. Pear-apple and pepper. We sip our shots, and suddenly a man appears behind us. “These are our seats,” he says, with a thick accent. He has a closely shaven head and smiles, a little too broadly.

CS says, “Why don’t we each take one? We didn’t know they were yours, and we’ve been sitting here.”

The man says, unconvincingly, “We were smoking. We were sitting here.”

CS stands up, towering over him, and speaks to him in Russian.

I look my shoulder nervously, but CS just mentions for me to move over to his seat, and he stands next to me. He shrugs.

We go back to drinking our vodka and eating a potato-mushroom dish slathered in sour cream. An enormously fat man starts playing lounge music on the grand piano in the corner. CS orders a horseradish-infused vodka, and I sip a cranberry-vodka shot.

We wander to the subway and somehow end up in the East Village. We meet his friends. I can barely remember who or how many they were. We drink more beer. Everyone leaves, and CS and I realize we haven’t really eaten. We stumble around until we find a dingy Indian dive, where we order piles of rice, chicken, and bread. It is spicy and greasy and good.

As we walk toward the subway, we see the cross-town bus approaching. “We should get on that!” he says.

“Perrrrfect,” I slur.

We get on the bus, which is too bright and too quiet. When we get to Union Square, he stands up and half-stand to hug him. My sloppy wet kiss misses his cheek and lands on his neck.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, and moves toward the door.

“Definitely,” I call after him, a little too loud.