Сердце, St. Petersburg The young woman has had too much to drink. She’s sitting alone at the bar, next to the husband of the woman who’s also had too much to drink. We’ve all been drinking – too much, except the husband – he’s driving. She asks me about our President, which stirs bile in the husband and me. I ask about her President. The husband perks up. She says he’s the President of the old he’s old, stupid male ego; both of them (meaning our president and their president both volleying in the land of dictators). Stupid old male ego. She’s friendly and talkative. I’m an English teacher she says. I teach oil rig workers English; they’re all men. She needs to vent. I don’t get paid enough. I need to live. I want politicians to go – all of them go far far away. I don’t want war I want a decent wage. Her unobstructed, smooth cleavage shimmers a shiny gold cross dangles, catches my eye like multiple exclamation marks. Speaking for the husband and myself (his hearing waning from the music blasting, booming obliterating), I say We want the same things. The husband’s wife stands at the foot of the stage soaking in the Russian band’s allure. It’s as if she’s receiving a transfusion. I take lots of pictures of the musicians with my iPhone: tattoos, piercings, leather boots instruments. Their look is loud cacophonous as their music, powerful as their songs, singular as the hour. It’s exactly what we want for our lives I assure the teacher, who’s ordered another. I’m not sure she understands at this point but know we three agree on one thing: we feel powerless at the moment – but the moment will shift.
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