My Moscow Conversion

I felt my breathing quicken as I wondered how she knew my address, and how she'd got through the combination-locked front door to the building. She could tell I was looking at her and she reached into the white leather clutch bag hanging from her shoulder, pulled something out and held it up to the spyhole: my engagement ring.

I could have called the police. I could have called embassy security. I could just have left her standing there. Instead, as if in one of my dreams, I saw my hand removing the security chain from the door, then unsnibbing the lock and opening the door. My caller smiled at me uncertainly, still holding out the ring, and looked a little surprised when I stood back and invited her in with an arm gesture. I led her through to the lounge and she squatted beside the coffee table and deposited my ring and a crumpled piece of paper -- my embassy appointment letter, telling me among other things the address of my Moscow apartment. Well, that was one of my questions answered.

As she rose I stepped towards her and she flinched, as if she thought I was about to attack her. She must have been even more surprised than I was when I placed an arm around her neck, pulled her head down to mine and kissed her, slipping my tongue between her lips. After a momentary hesitation she wrapped her arms around me and responded -- her tongue stud was still in place. I stood back, breathing deeply. My visitor again smiled nervously and, placing a finger against her own chest, said "Liliya."

Still as if I was watching from outside myself I saw my hand reach out and cup hers and I heard my voice say "Pozhaluysta" (please). Then, the person I was watching, the person who was me, led this young woman she barely knew, not at all really, into her bedroom. There, as if it was something I did every day, I methodically slipped off my clothes and sat naked on the bed and watched as Liliya, my lover-to-be, started to quickly remove hers.