Tanya’s still in bed when I come in. She’s in bed, smoking with a careless expression, watching MTV. The covers only come up to the middle of her thighs – she has white cotton panties on – with string in back, of course – and one of my white t-shirts on. Her hard little breasts poke against the thin fabric, and tremble a little when she exhales.
“Baby,” she says in English, “come lie between my legs.”
The room is heavy with smoke and dark and the music videos flicker through the air and on across the large windows behind her. She’s lying back on a mass of bright, oversized pillows she says she made one summer.
One of her legs slowly lifts out from under the covers and she looks at me.
“But get the vodka first,” she adds with a look almost like she’s pouting.
I run my thumb from the bottom of her foot up over the ankle to the inside of her prickly calf and along the smooth flesh on the inside of her thigh. She closes her eyes and puts a finger in my mouth.
Today I did something I never would have done at home. Today I walked straight into two American guys standing at the bottom of the escalator in the metro and glared at them. They stared back at me, dumbfounded. One might have said something as I was going up the stairs. But they didn’t do anything. They didn’t even look particularly hurt.
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