Without Thinking Twice

***

Winston Churchill was right about Russia, that it’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside of an enigma. Fine words and true to the core. Only I would say it about Russians, or Russian women, to be exact. Or to be more particular, about my wife, my beloved Lara. It took me years to realize that as far as my understanding of her nature goes, I’m no closer now than I was back then. Heck, back then I thought I knew what those women wanted, and Lara was just one of them. But given her looks and our age difference, I ignored that. I thought as long as I provided her with everything she needed, which wouldn’t be too much compared to what she had over there, we’d be like two doves in a nest. A big lapse in my judgment. Their bad economy was nothing to her, nothing. This woman would survive in combat. One derisive remark and you’re just as good as dead. Not that I recoil. You let a woman see your weakness once, you can forget about her respect for you, much less her love.

That address I gave her? I thought she’d appreciate it at least. But she grabbed it and turned on her heel. “You’re welcome, Lara,” I said. She raised her hands as in prayer. “Thanks, my savior. If I knew English better, I’d express my gratitude better.” She couldn’t say simple ‘thanks, Sam,’ could she? She’ll never miss a chance to point out that her English isn’t perfect yet and that it’s my fault. Obsessed with her errors, dammit, but don’t you dare correct them. Those big blues of hers would flash like lightning in the dark. Just like when she yaks about her projects. Damn those projects.

“I’ve seen enough white walls in the hospital,” she said, nose up, hands on hips. All right then, do what you want. She did, didn’t she? Repainted every damn room in this house five damn times, and now she’s attacking the hallway. Says that beige is like a coffee stain on a white tablecloth, gets on her nerves. As if she’d tolerate a coffee stain on anything for more than two seconds. I bet she wants to brag about the new paint to her girlfriends on our anniversary. Strange women, always competing with each other in petty things like that.

She thinks she’ll have her way again? We’ll see about that. One day we both agree on blue paint, the next day green catches her fancy, and there goes heavenly blue. But that’s too bad, Lara, that’s too bad, you don’t renege on mutual decisions on a whim.

I can’t wait to see her reaction tonight after my trip to Home Depot. I bet that’ll divert her attention from “the catastrophe,” yes sir.

***

A Russian bride, a trophy…

Nicknamed and tagged…

For losing her heart to a foreigner…

For giving him her hand…

But those who cast labels…

Fail to recognize…

That two people in love…

Are each other’s prize…

Impetuous and subjective again. But doesn’t spontaneity preclude objectivity? It feels good to be impulsive, though, without this need to weigh my words against someone else’s judgment, even if it’s only in verse and even if it’s poor verse. Not like Emily Dickinson’s, for one, though hers exudes spontaneity too. Uninhibited spontaneity. I picture her face glowing from the rush of images, her hand hastily shaping them into words, filling up pauses with dashes. Of course, it would be presumptuous of me to draw such a comparison, and I don’t, I only mean this burning feeling that drives me to quickly line up words, lest they slip, except for scattered bits. Like now, for instance, after I’ve read Lara’s e-mail. I don’t think spontaneity is her problem, judging by the way she talks about herself—openly, the Russian way.

Oh, it’s time to get dressed. Bill may arrive home a little earlier tonight. Should I wear my burgundy dress, his Christmas gift? When I first slipped into it, the silk slithered slightly on my waist and hips, caressing my skin. But when Bill zipped me up in back, it hugged me so tightly I had to hold my breath. He twirled me in front of the mirror. “Wow, Juliet. It’s perfect. You can really show off your legs in it, and your figure.” Silly. What would he say if I wore something long and loose, à la Emily Dickinson, tonight?

I wonder why she preferred to wear white. Was it because it accentuated her dark hair? But aren’t vanity and seclusion mutually exclusive? Maybe because white is synonymous with truth, the subject she explored in her poems? Then again, her taste could be merely a misconception. I too may stay in someone’s memory as “a woman in a short, tight burgundy dress”—if I wear it often, as Bill suggested. Only when was the last time we went out? On New Year’s Eve. Swamped with work, he’s hardly ever home.

He didn’t say what restaurant he’d picked. If he decided to keep me in suspense, he certainly succeeded. He probably meant Lara’s e-mail address as a surprise, too. Only he could’ve predicted that she might write me before he remembered, but he didn’t remember, and that’s a problem he’s been having lately. The success of his firm is the only thing that occupies his mind right now.

I’m so glad that going out tonight is unavoidable.