Q asked me to a drink.
“You can meet my American friends,” he told me.
“Yeah,” he said, excited, “they are from Portland.”
Q is already there when I arrive, a place not far from my apartment that serves only alcoholic cider.
His American friends turn out to be one guy and his absent girlfriend.
“She got sick off some vegan shawarma,” he tells us from under a mustache.
The ciders come; two Russian, one from the south of France.
“So, what are you doing in Russia?” The American asks.
I shrug. “A few things here and there.”
He nods. “Yeah, I am a teacher too. It’s really great, you know–rewarding.”
“So, why’d you pick Russia?”
“Dunno,” I say.
“Rad. Yeah–I love it here man. The culture is fascinating and so beautiful. Rich–you know, like, rich-rich. It’s so old and just–” he takes a breath, “just amazing…
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