I tried to say something, but my mouth had gone completely dry.

"Come in," he said and I climbed up into the car, which was nice and cool in stark contrast with the chilla heat. Once inside, I felt the sweat drip from my face, down my back, and turning cold, giving me a shudder. In the mirror, I could see my flushed face. Jason looked over at me and laughed. "It's 45 degrees out there. What are you doing out on the street?"

"Trying to get a taxi." I croaked. He handed me a bottle of water.

"Not very successfully." He chuckled and started driving. I opened the water which I chugged, water spilling down the side of my face. He decelerated. "Where can I take you?"

I thought about it for a moment. "Any hotel. With a swimming pool."

"I was on my way to the Sheraton," he said. "Get some breakfast, read the newspaper, maybe take a dip. Go together?"

"Sure," I said, and he sped off, definitely breaking some speed limit, but that didn't really matter, I suppose, when you had red diplomatic license plates.

He had just asked me to go out with him, I thought. I had completely forgot how just moments earlier I was feeling lonely with no idea what to do with myself, fearing leaving the apartment, desperate for some human contact, feeling like the last person alive in this city.

But we were silent throughout the short ride. I looked out the window at the empty streets, past the central department store, with no signs of life in front of it. Not even the outdoor booksellers were set up. No one in front of the opera house -- its fountains in the plaza in front of it shut off. Not even a uniformed officer in front of the KGB headquarters.

I tried to steal a glance at Jason, whose eyes were focused on the road. I thought about the previous night, how we hadn't really been properly introduced; that probably Alyssa had wanted to fix us up.

We got to the hotel parking lot which had no cars, and got out of the car in silence. The heat was oppressive. Even in the few steps to the door of lobby, which seemed deserted quiet. No one had seen us enter. Not even the doorman, who sat on the sofa with other uniformed hotel staff enjoying a laugh, but quickly stiffening and stopping all laughter as they saw us enter, swiftly assuming their places, at the door, by the elevator, at the concierge desk, as we walked to the dining hall.

The dining hall seemed to anticipate our presence. Though the tables were all empty of people, a huge buffet with elegant trays piled on with food was laid out, fresh-faced waiters appeared from the corners. A chef, recognizable by a typical chef's hat lit up heaters under the serving trays. We walked over to take seats by the window, which looked out to an empty swimming pool, followed by what seemed to be an army of waiters, who buzzed aruond us, offerring us coffee, tea, removing the cloth napkins from our plates and handing them to us to put in our laps, offerring to push in our seats, then hovering above us as we sat opposite each other, for the first time looking at each other face to face, smiling, since all we wanted to do was to get food from the buffet tables. I quickly registered that he had lovely slightly tanned skin, grey eyes, and lots of gray in his dark hair before we quickly stood up.

Leaving behind the waiters, we went to the buffet, where I piled onto my plate fresh fruits, scrambled eggs, small broccoli rabe, spinach, challots, tomatoes, wedges of three different cheeses -- brie, havarti, cheddar . I took a second plate for rolls, muffins, little cakes, cookies. It wasn't until I saw his small portions of fried eggs and bacon with a side of several slices of pineapple, that I grew self conscious of how big my portions were. I didn't need to watch my weight, I was in great shape, had a nervous energy that seemed to burn off the calories and besides, it wasn't every day that I had such nice foods spread out in front of me. He was older, seemed to have that propensity towards getting fat, had to watch his diet.

We met back at the table and he cast a bemused glance at my plates full of food. We chatted a bit.

He'd lived overseas only for one year before this. He lived in Minsk, in Belarus on his previous assignment before being transferred to Tashkent. "Shitty countries," he referred to these posts. I wondered what had prompted him to leave the US. Had he left a bad job, a bad career path? Left a bad relationship. These were the things our families and friends back home assume about us to explain our exoduses. Why did they never think that perhaps we were following someone or something, a spirit of adventure, seeking our fortunes on the road, seeking knowledge, seeking something inside ourselves. They were never particularly creative with their explanations -- which were always about escape, perhaps reflecting more about their own entrapping situations. Often when I met expatriates here, they told me what drew them here. But Jason didn't. And I found my journalistic faculties escape me and some unfamiliar politeness take over. I justdidn't feel right about asking.

Instead, he told me about his law practice in DC. And before that, he had done graduate work in New York lived in the, East Village, remembered the Boy Bar on St. Marks. This bit of information would have probably placed him at least at 10 years my senior, since I remembered that place as already having been closed by the time I was a college student; it also answered any questions that might have remained, as to whether or not he was gay. But I hadn't such a question, though we had not explicitly spoken about it. Of course Alyssa had been trying to fix us up. Though I got a sense that he was likely after something younger, exotic, local, as part of his overseas adventure.

He had something of a wandering eye, which he cast on the tall, young waiter who came to refill our coffee. Jason beamed at him focussing hard on pouring the coffee, I thought it made him feel self-conscious, awkward. He was lovely, with swarthy skin, thick lips, olive colored, almond shaped eyes, and jet black hair; he looked up and smiled back. I wondered if Jason's newness here had him mistake the good service or the facination by young Uzbeks with foreigners to mean something more than just that. Or, perhaps he was just predatory. He could probably get away with it here. He was tall. He was good looking. He was foreign.

The waiter stepped away, standing behind the buffet tables. Jason would look back at him. His interest allayed any sense I might have had that there were any sparks between him and me. At best, I figured, we'd be like buddies. I needed a good buddy around here.I turned at looked at the waiter, then turned back to Jason. "He's really cute," I said, wondering if he sensed that I might have liked him, and hoping that he didn't.

"Yeah, he keeps looking over this way. I wonder what that's all about," he mused. The waiter had an innocent boyish look about him. That, of course, could be deceptive, though.And Jason clearly had less innocent things on his mind. The waiter then disappeared.

Jason quickly drank his coffee. He raised his mug indicating to the waiters standing in all corners of the hall, watching us, that he wanted a refill. From the kitchen, a young woman emerged with a coffeepot. She refilled our mugs and asked in stilted English if we were happy with our meal.

We talked about going swimming. "Should we swim here?" he asked.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Well, there's no one here. It's kind of boring. I kind of miss the summer in Minsk, where all the young guys would gather outside the city at this makeshift beach. There was always lots of interesting things to look at," he said somewhat lasciviously.

"Not likely you're going to have anything as exciting as that here in Tashkent. These hotel pools are too expensive for most local guys. It will only be expatriates. And have you seen our expatriate men?" I said. "They're a nice bunch, but not a whole lot to look at."

I offered to take him to one of the local swimming pools. The Mitrofanova pool was not far away. It wasn't the cleanest swimming pool, but had an interesting mix of local people. We agreed we'd go to Mitrofanova. He finished his coffee and raised his mug again. The young woman started walking back with the coffee pot, and Jason whispered with disappointment, "her again."  ¶ 10:22 PM