Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Inside his car we listened to blaring French rap, as we sped through winding streets up a mountain. Don't look down because it's off a cliff you go. He kept offering me cigarettes, but I told him that I only smoked when there was a drink close by.
He took me to the Beluga, a swanky bar, lounge, restaurant, whatever on the water front. We sat outside it was nice. He ordered his rum and coke, I a glass of red. He smoked. I smoked. I smoked one to his every three. We sat across from each other. I on a couch alone, and he on a leather armchair, which suited me fine since I was more interested in the view then the company.
The Russian, "Common you aren't going to make me drink alone."
Me: "What time is it?"
Russian: "One something."
Me: "Some where else. I can sleep when I'm dead." (Laugh. I knew I probably should have called it, calling it, really is an art form.)
We went on to this other place in town which was a positive. There was a live band singing, "Rape me my friend," at which point I expressed excitement, not because I loved the song, but because I went over those lyrics in a features class a few months past.