Maybe I'm just tired

There are other places I'd rather be right now. In my bed, for instance. Without a band that I appreciate, without the Kalmyks to fascinate me, another 0500 at Китайский Летчик seems to have lost its novelty and charm. It’s the cigarette fume that’s blinding me, I guess; right now I really can’t stand its very smell, even its beautiful turbulent ascendance into the low-hanging incandescent lamps. Or the sketchy-looking guys ambiguously interested in Richard; maybe they just want another drinking buddy, or practice their English, or something else. Or the jealousy that Stephen had another successful night at the bar, scoring another phone number with his bravery and our enthusiastic help, while “left out” doesn’t even begin to describe the emptiness that’s imploding me. Longing has something to do with it, I'm sure of it.

Yeah, that’s it. It’s been a fairytale too Hollywood to be true. Disarming boy goes to bar with friends. Boy sees cute waitress with whom he barely shares a language, but evidently something much more essential. Boy gets up the nerves to talk to her. Friends help him while he slowly wins her over with his intoxicat-ing/-ed charm. After a few hours, she gave him digits and sincere possibilities. After that, they talked a few hours more. Leaning over the counter, the girl that seemed shy and depressed at the start of the night is lighting up our corner with her angelic smile.

I don’t understand. I have a bad case of dandruff, even though I head & shouldered twice before I left. It feels like Barcelona all over again, but colder. I’m suddenly once again struck by the futility of meeting new people, starting with the same old introductions, dragging on the same empty conversations, and departing with the same inadequacy left behind by the last awkward silence. I don’t even know if these alcohol-aided Russian sessions are of any help once the sun rises and my liver has earned its keep.

But here we go again, ‘cause how many times will I be in Moscow?