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Novodevichy Cemetery - Moscow by reibai


He was a mediocre lover but at the time I had no clue. I thought he was fine; he was, in fact, sweet.

I don’t know how many nights I spent in his place on the outskirts of Moscow, in one of the monastic cells of multistorey buildings crowding the landscape to the horizon in the monotonous repetitive patterns. We did not see each other over the course of the summer; I was not in the city.

Maybe it meant we grew apart–easily, without drama, bored with each other but keeping an overall tender fading impression of the pale pleasures we lazily shared.

It did not have a formal closure though, and, invited to a party at his house in September, I was surprised to discover that he was already living with his girlfriend (with whom they married happily in a short while and, I know, produced two fresh-faced cherubic children).

I did not love him, yet I was displeased with what I saw and silently left the party. On the stairs I recalled that I forgot my beret. Much as it was disagreeable to get back, it was unwise to walk in the cold wind to the metro station, and I ascended.

Luckily, one of my friends opened the door, not him; I snatched the beret, and my friend exited with me, to walk me to the metro.

We did not take two steps before he asked me why I was leaving and I said: “Well, I didn’t know he has a girlfriend now! I think he should have told me, he did not even tell.”

“Stay, we could talk,” I heard a familiar voice all of a sudden; the door, it turned out, was open, and at the threshold my unfortunate lover stood.

I looked at him, smiled, shook my head, and said: “I was not talking about you.”

Which of course was a lie, and everyone present knew it, but which was also the end, and everyone knew it too.