masha and her raffaellos
i remember masha. masha - the one who, to this day, i-still-don’t-know-if-she got away. the one i dated three times before she left for good.
i remember how when she’d put on makeup in my bedroom, she would half-jokingly say: don't look at me. she'd stop until i'd left the room.
she didn't act much like any of the women i had dated before - she hardly ever showed vulnerability, which is probably why i remember those times of her sitting at the vanity the most.
and i remember the last time i saw masha. her sitting in her little apartment-over-a-shop in russia - the one near the train station where i had imagined myself a million times showing up unannounced, knocking on their door.
we talked on skype. she was wearing her fiancé's wifebeater - an act of womanly defiance so rare in her. i guess i had pushed her to be someone she didn't want to be, not taken the other hints she had given me over the preceding months.
i wish i hadn't thrown her bags out the door that time when we were in bed together, me jealous, her lost and confused.
i wish i hadn't told her she'd just eaten a whole box of ferrero raffaellos while i was cooking breakfast. she hadn't realized what she’d done, and seeing her blush melted my heart.
i should’ve shut my stupid mouth.