the day you both dry-retched
you entered the door at 7am, immediately went to the bathroom and dry-retched for five minutes straight, the strain burning your solar plexus. the entire drive home from the airport you were fine.
masha and you had spent a month together. australia, mongolia. 24 hours a day, through flights, a wedding, family trips, lounging on the couch at your apartment eating indian takeout and watching old italian soap operas dubbed in russian.
you took her to the airport early that morning, she was going home, back to her boyfriend. it had taken her the first two weeks to stop referring to him as her ‘friend.’
both you and her had planned the trip with the best intentions - you were friends, she had a ‘friend’ who said he didn’t mind. the bride asked who your plus one was - ‘a friend.’
by the day of the wedding you weren’t friends. you weren’t exactly dating either.
it had been hard - even now - for you to define what you and masha were to each other - perpetrators in an emotional affair, perhaps. you’d just divorced, she was clearly having issues with her ‘friend', though you were both as coy as cats circling the dinner bowl, tails high in the air.
all you know is that it was the first time you had ever dry-retched from emotions.
that must’ve meant something.
you talked when she landed in moscow. you explained what had happened that morning.
she told you that as soon as the seatbelt light turned off, the same thing had happened to her.
you dated for a year.