I crossed my legs slowly and smoothed my short skirt around my thighs, leaning back into the thinly cushioned velvet seat. The Moscow Subway was moving slowly this Wednesday evening, for track maintenance, because switchers were down, or because of a small fire, it would never be known.
The subway car was mostly empty. Only a handful of people had their noses poked into books, or their eyes closed, chins on chests. I repeatedly scanned the words in the thick book that I held open in my lap, but was not retaining anything I read. My mind kept wandering, wondering with pleasure at how I'd settled so comfortably into life in Moscow.
I had come here to put my journalism education to work. It would have been easy to find writing work online, but I craved real experiences, and the showcase pieces in my portfolio were intimate interview profiles. I was hoping to broaden that collection here, to make myself more eligible for print work.
I chose the cosmopolitan city of Moscow because I'd been obsessed with Russia since I was a child. I felt exotic and special when I learned that on my mother's father's side once-removed of my corn-fed, dirty-blonde-haired, mild-mannered family, there had been a mysterious Russian woman that nobody really knew anything about. And that humble trickle of hearty blood beat hot in my heart.
When I first I saw pictures of the confection-like onion domes on Russia's Orthodox Churches, I didn't believe they were real. When I was assured they actually existed, I was awestruck. I was determined to see them with my own eyes one day. And in my teenage years, I inhaled the writings of Chekov and
Bulgakov, feeling dramatically wronged that my existence was unfolding in dull grey streets of Fargo, rather on the enchanting cobblestone streets of Saint Petersburg.
I arrived in Moscow on a rainy spring morning, and after dropping two suitcases off at the tiny sublet on Arbat Street I'd taken from a Canadian ex-pat, I ventured out onto the streets. I was exhausted, over-stimulated, and needed to think about work, but for my first three days, I allowed myself to be a tourist.
I slipped through the city, alone, not bothered by the damp. I loved the fact that you could listen to live music until dawn at any number of bohemian cafes. Numerous swarthy-complexioned men propositioned me what seemed like sincere longing, but their words slurred, and their legs wobbled from drink. I would smile and gently tease, genuinely enjoying the attention, and move on. I did want to feel one of the rugged, broad-shouldered men's cocks thrusting rhythmically inside me, but I could wait for a sober lover.
For days, I stuffed myself with cabbage rolls and black bread, and watched people. I loved the people, the pride Moscovites took in their appearance. Young women would dress up in full make-up and furs, just to pick up groceries. Moving through the streets in my high heels, possibly in the dusty footsteps of my distant ancestor, I felt like I had come home. Life in North Dakota seemed long ago, and far away.
I slipped my book into my purse after drowsily reading the same paragraph six times. I permitted my thoughts to wander, and allowed my eyes to close.
The interview at Moscow Times had gone better than I had expected, and not just because Rodion, the man who had asked me probing questions about my educational and employment background, was intensely good-looking. He made it clear to me that he was interested in securing my freelance copywriting talents, promising a phone call next week to confirm details.
My good humour from the successful interview had lasted through what I hoped was not a preemptively celebratory dinner at
Cafe Khachapuri
, with my roommate, Dina. She was almost as giddy as I was about the prospect of my winning the Moscow Times as a client, and laughingly ordered us multiple rounds of drinks to celebrate. Her German accent became stronger after a few vodkas, and I loved to listen to the way she spoke, her words a sexy clipped and lilting dance.
While describing the Moscow Times office and the interview process, I happened to mention Rodion's distractingly good looks. Dina quickly waved her hands to interrupt me, and insisted I immediately elaborate, her pretty blue eyes wide with salacious interest.
Smiling, cheeks flushed with drink, I told Dina how I had been reviewing some pages of copy in the plush reception area of the Moscow Times, my head down. Rodion seemed to come up on me suddenly, and I was startled to feel his presence beside me. I immediately noticed that he was tall and lean, dressed in a slim fit black suit. He had dark blue eyes, and pronounced my name, Liv, in a deep voice seasoned with a Russian accent, making my name sound almost like "love".
He led me to a small boardroom adjacent to the reception area, and he invited me to sit in a straight-back chair at a heavily-lacquered wooden table. He took a seat across from me, and as the feline movement of his body stirred the air, I couldn't help but notice that he smelled faintly of leather and clove.
He was probably 35, with dark wavy hair that seemed almost black in the muted light of the boardroom. His hands were large and rested folded atop my resume. His demeanor was friendly, but serious, his small talk limited to "would you like a water or tea" before we began discussing my writing qualifications.
As I began to sell myself, as I had done so many times before, I slipped into autopilot, reciting my work history and accomplishments like an automaton. I could hear my voice drone on as I let my gaze meet his dark eyes, flicker down to his hands, glance up to his broad shoulders, and flicker again back to his eyes. He was attractive. As he watched me speaking, I subtly arched my back, hoping he would steal a glance at my breasts.
After the interview, he walked me back to the reception area, moving with a loose confidence. Smiling slightly, assuring me he would be in touch next week, he extended his hand to take mine. As we touched, we both shuddered, a ping of static shock suddenly embracing us. With an awkward chuckle, he extended his hand again, his deep blue eyes searching mine. We successfully clasped hands for a moment. His hand was large, his skin soft and warm.
Dina fluttered her eyelashes and pretended to swoon, and we both laughed. We were both experienced, attractive women in our late 20s, and while we often chatted facetiously about men, our appetites were as diverse and ferocious as our liberal minds.
I met Dina on the internet. She had been living in Moscow for a year with a boyfriend, Ivan, but he'd become homesick and moved back to Hamburg. He left a void, mostly of the real-estate variety: the apartment was enormous, a two-bedroom near my sublet on Arbat Street. So she'd advertised for a roommate. Dina and I were both in our late 20s, with journalism and communications backgrounds. After she showed me around the apartment, we bonded over books, handbags, and cocktails. I was the first person she met about the apartment and the last - I moved in the next week.
That was two months ago, and it was August now. Tonight, stuffed with grilled meat marinated with plums, and warmed through with vodka, we exchanged a fond good-bye outside the restaurant, the light now dusky on Gnezdnikovsky.
Dina had plans with a man named Erik that she had recently started seeing, so to give them privacy at home, I had decided to go to the symphony. I didn't know much about music, but I loved the grandeur of the music hall, and The Moscow Symphony's rendition of Sibelius' Symphony #2 had been a sensuous surprise. While the music played, I admired the art nouveau concert hall and the sleek Muscovites seated elegantly within.
I sighed happily. The subway bumped, and stopped, but continued rumbling. I re-crossed my legs and glanced at my watch, noting it was past midnight. Dina and Erik had had hours at this point alone. I wondered what they had gotten up to, and let my mind wander.
Dina was petite, with wavy blonde hair that she usually wore loose. She was extroverted, with a bubbly personality, and talked with her hands. Men loved her, and women too. She had an enviable hourglass figure, and the confidence to show it off. That evening, she had been wearing a dark blue dress with black gems embroidered across the bodice, low-cut enough to show off a sliver of creamy cleavage. Her décolletage glowed with a hint of shimmer, from the skin cream we had purchased together. It smelled like peaches.
I imagined that once she got home with Erik, he would immediately put his hands on her hips, kiss her hard, then slowly pull that dark blue dress up, and over her head. Her hair would fall down over her shoulders and bosom, and she would stand before him naked and bemused in her black stilettos. He would take her hand, and put it on the crotch of his blue jeans, so she could feel how hard his cock was. Dina would act offended, but instead of yanking her hand away, she would slip it slowly inside Erik's pants, and grasp his hot shaft.
I shifted in my seat, suddenly aroused.
The subway train lurched, and stopped again, rumbling at a higher frequency. My seat was suddenly vibrating, clearly defective.
But the Moscow Metro was eighty years old, so naturally it was ornery. Long line-ups for tickets could clog her entrance arteries, a blast from a guard's whistle could incite a migraine, and the escalators worked on her whimsy. But she could get away with it: the old girl had good bones, and she was loved far and wide for her beauty. From the stunning art deco columns at
Mayakovskaya, to the bronze sculptures at
Ploschad Revolyutsii, she was a national treasure.
