Speaking A Different Language
I looked over at The Russian lying next to me in my bed. My wonderful bed, my heaven, my haven.
I called it my “princess bed” because it was up so high (so I could hope to store as much as possible in my 300 sf Manhattan studio apartment) and I had strung shimmery curtains from the ceiling all around my bed. I could pull those curtains closed around my bed and create a soft place for me and The Russian to sink into together for what felt like hours.
That particular night had been wonderful. For the first time in ages we had gone out to eat a nice dinner. When we headed out of my apartment The Russian pulled my arm down 1st Avenue to a Ukrainian restaurant he liked.
