Anticipation of a Meeting

This weekend I am going to have coffee with A., an old friend from grad school. Back then, A. and I bonded over our superior knowledge of Russian slang as well as our debilitating depression. At the few parties we ever attended, our colleagues discussed agricultural policy in Kazakhstan while A. and I huddled together watching YouTube videos of wannabe Russian gangsters on his phone (gopniki). We both felt like idiots in our first semester GOV seminar, but we both got A's. At the campus’s Mental Health Center, we ran into each other so often that my psychiatrist thought we were dating.

I can only imagine what impressive things A. might be up to now. Maybe he joined the Foreign Service, or perhaps he’s getting his PhD.

“And what have you been doing?” he’ll surely ask.

“I quit my job at XYZ in August; now I strip and masturbate on the internet for hundreds of strangers,” I’ll say.

“You?!”

I can already hear his incredulous laughter. Offline, I have always been known as shy and reserved, a person who intentionally tries to go unnoticed in life. The last time I saw A., I was wearing a beige cardigan, Ann Taylor slacks, and a dab of under-eye concealer. We talked about résumés and our respective long-term relationships. Everything was on track.

This time, I’d love to show up sporting my new leopard print pencil skirt, perfectly defined cat-eyes, and the Hello Kitty purse I just bought in Quebec. (Yes, I am a feline-obsessed teenaged girl trapped in the body of a 25-year-old.)

Maybe I’d pull him into some dive bar in the Village to tell him all about my new vocation. Maybe I’d lean a bit closer when divulging the particularly risqué parts, so much that he could smell the top notes of cardamom in my perfume. Maybe the hairs on his neck would jump and his heart would sprint, leaving all thoughts of our professional lives in the dust. Maybe then he would believe me. Better yet, maybe I would believe myself.