Chapter 2

As she stood there, her eyes welled with tears again.

That morning, we had woken up as if everything was the same. It was, to us. She showered first, and I second. She wore shower sandals. She always did. We studied in our beds, counting down the minutes till we could race out the slab we called a door and down the concrete steps. Until we would trot across the inches of packed snow and ice, and dog urine and blood. It was the only day we would trot.

P-day.

An oasis in a bleak time of isolation. A beacon of light in those dark, lonely days, when we would sit down in the basement of some Armenian Khanut and email our families. Our friends. Talk of home. Of what was. Of what would be. Sometimes there was even American music. Sometimes Elder Halcomb would get a letter from one of the many girls he was writing. Sometimes Bullock would be awkward.

But no matter what, there was me and Anna. No matter what, we sat next to each other. No matter what, we would share. And talk. And laugh.

And cry?

This morning, something was different. Not all was the same. The phone rang. Anna picked it up. I watched as her face changed. I don’t remember her side of the conversation at all. Just one part:

Do I have a choice?

She hung up, and turned and told me the news.

I’m leaving. I hate my life. Why do all the good companions only last for a short time?

We both started crying. We hugged. Turns out the guy next to us spoke English…. Who cares.

That day, we did whatever she wanted to do. We raged around the city. We hunted for baghbaghakWe went to the outdoor market, where freshly slaughtered carcasses dripped blood in the snow and jesus-shaped bottles of vodka glared at us with all their hypocritical might. Where cheap, shoddy jewelry was sold by rough Armenian men, and where a lemon became a gift.

When we went back to the apartment, I thought my chest was going to explode.

She started to head for the door. Back to work, with a sigh.

It’s like I’ve been standing in a crowded room my whole life, screaming at the top of my lungs, and no one heard me. Until you, I told her.

She didn’t say anything.

But that’s just how she is. She holds it in. She thinks. And then she writes.

And she wrote.

No one would ever get it. Until this point in my life, no one has. To be honest, no one has really tried.

I wonder if that’s what’s going to be the difference someday? That someone is going to try? And he’s going to work until I trust him and work until I tell him and then work to make it better.

Who knows how long I’ve loved you

You know I love you still

Will I wait a lonely lifetime

If you want me to, I will

I wonder if I’ll ever love anyone as much as I love Anna. I don’t know. Now don’t misunderstand me; there are as many forms of love as there are moments in time, as Jane Austen puts it. The love I have for Anna is the love of a sister, a friend, and a confidant. I just wonder if the love I will eventually feel for the man I marry will measure up to the filial love I feel for her. I know it will be different. But will it be enough?

The thing is, I have a simple heart.

Simple tastes. The thing is, I am a remarkably simple human being.

Yes means yes. No means no. Silence means….. no.