Monday, September 04, 2006
Another Saturday Night
That Saturday night, Yulia and I agreed to meet up at the Soccer Bar for a drink before going to Lucky’s across the street for the usual Saturday night clubbing. Just when I arrived at the bar, she phoned and said she’d be running late. I sat down at a table by myself and ordered a beer, thinking how I would tell Yulia that I was leaving the country for home for a week or two. I didn’t know why, or maybe I did know why, a million reasons why, I knew it would be awkward and uncomfortable telling her.
The bar was quiet. It was early, only 10:00 and few tables were occupied with a few couples. I looked up and saw across the room Robert, an American I was friendly with and his Uzbek wife, Gulya. They beckoned me over to join them. “Don’t drink alone,” Gulya said.
I went over to them. “I’m waiting for a friend,” I said saying ‘friend’ much in the way that gay men have always used to describe a lover, when they are being cagey about the gender of the person and the nature of the relationship. “My friend is running a little late, but I’ll join you until my friend shows up, if that’s ok.”
Robert smiled but didn’t press for details about the friend – who he would see soon enough. We talked about work, about his recent trip back to the US, what the US was like after September 11, how there was a lot more airport security, and whether life would ever be the same. I admitted that I was a little afraid to fly again, and hadn’t yet since September 11.
I quickly turned to the door to the bar which had just swung open and in entered Yulia. “My friend is here,” I told Robert and Gulya and I could see them look at each other in mild surprise, likely over the fact that my ‘friend,’ indeed was this very beautiful woman. When Yulia caught my gaze, she came over to us, we embraced and I introduced her to Robert and Gulia and she seemed eager to sit with them, rather than us sit alone.
Robert and Gulya were very interested in Gulya and had many questions for her, asking her about her work, asking her things even I had been too careful to ask her, for example, about her work. Gulya found the work to be fascinating. She wanted to know all about the kind of men who searched for mail-order brides from Uzbekistan.
“Some of them are nice – big shot guys with lots of money to spend.” she said. “But usually, they’re blue collar guys from small towns where there are not enough women to marry, I guess.”
“Do you ever follow up with the girls, keep in touch with them,” Robert asked.
“Never,” Yulia said and excused herself to go to the bathroom.
“She’s very lovely,” Robert and Gulya said, like approving parents meeting a fiancée.
“I know,” I said. ¶ 1:41 AM
That Saturday night, Yulia and I agreed to meet up at the Soccer Bar for a drink before going to Lucky’s across the street for the usual Saturday night clubbing. Just when I arrived at the bar, she phoned and said she’d be running late. I sat down at a table by myself and ordered a beer, thinking how I would tell Yulia that I was leaving the country for home for a week or two. I didn’t know why, or maybe I did know why, a million reasons why, I knew it would be awkward and uncomfortable telling her.
The bar was quiet. It was early, only 10:00 and few tables were occupied with a few couples. I looked up and saw across the room Robert, an American I was friendly with and his Uzbek wife, Gulya. They beckoned me over to join them. “Don’t drink alone,” Gulya said.
I went over to them. “I’m waiting for a friend,” I said saying ‘friend’ much in the way that gay men have always used to describe a lover, when they are being cagey about the gender of the person and the nature of the relationship. “My friend is running a little late, but I’ll join you until my friend shows up, if that’s ok.”
Robert smiled but didn’t press for details about the friend – who he would see soon enough. We talked about work, about his recent trip back to the US, what the US was like after September 11, how there was a lot more airport security, and whether life would ever be the same. I admitted that I was a little afraid to fly again, and hadn’t yet since September 11.
I quickly turned to the door to the bar which had just swung open and in entered Yulia. “My friend is here,” I told Robert and Gulya and I could see them look at each other in mild surprise, likely over the fact that my ‘friend,’ indeed was this very beautiful woman. When Yulia caught my gaze, she came over to us, we embraced and I introduced her to Robert and Gulia and she seemed eager to sit with them, rather than us sit alone.
Robert and Gulya were very interested in Gulya and had many questions for her, asking her about her work, asking her things even I had been too careful to ask her, for example, about her work. Gulya found the work to be fascinating. She wanted to know all about the kind of men who searched for mail-order brides from Uzbekistan.
“Some of them are nice – big shot guys with lots of money to spend.” she said. “But usually, they’re blue collar guys from small towns where there are not enough women to marry, I guess.”
“Do you ever follow up with the girls, keep in touch with them,” Robert asked.
“Never,” Yulia said and excused herself to go to the bathroom.
“She’s very lovely,” Robert and Gulya said, like approving parents meeting a fiancée.
“I know,” I said. ¶ 1:41 AM
