post 11 november

Justwrite 10 november

Pinkish drinkish dressed in black

gets off the phone

presumably with the lady

of some house

tells his companion, his eye-keeper-on:

“baton, limon, cognac”

It is clear the third is already wrong

The first notice is as she uses

the sidewalk as a spittoon

splendidly globbed wetly

Seconds laterm the second:

perfume behind the ears

wafted clear in the same direction

The only dream on the too-early morning train:

waking up and getting ready

then falling asleep again—too early

shame of mistake

again awake when sleep’s still free

Repeat

squeezing excess shower

from her twisted knot

of justclean hair

justwrite 9 november

While she sleeps, Aileen dreams of the man she met on the train, only this time he is Misha, from the café. They have the same eyes, and this makes even more sense now that they are the same person.

“So, you’re Alice?” he asks her repeatedly. He is gesturing toward a map underneath a display case, but she can’t tell where he’s pointing because there are cakes in the way.

“If this is Wonderland, then yes,” she responds lightly, each time. She hopes she sounds clever. Even if this is only a dream, and Misha really speaks only Russian, she might as well take the opportunity to try to appear clever and alluring.

The waitress from the back table, who is now the conductor on the train, rolls her eyes in a somehow pleasant manner. She indicates the top bunk to a lion who appears in the corridor, and he leaps up to the bunk above Aileen’s head effortlessly, refusing linens or coffee.

Justwrite 8 november

The honey beer appears a moment later, giving Aileen the chance to sip and stare at the rest of the customers. Of course it’s awkward to stare at people at any time, especially when they’re in such close proximity to you, but you have to look up to take a drink, right? Staring is totally reasonable when combined with sipping.

The remaining three tables are filled with a probable pair of tourists, two middle-aged women speaking what might be Polish in low tones and trying to look sophisticated while showing each other souvenirs. The big table holds what appears to be a party of businessmen who appear to have finished their lunch and are now shuffling papers around the table while drinking small cups of coffee. It seems to Aileen that the elbows at the table will inevitably collide with the cups and spill coffee all over these papers. The final table, farthest from the door, seats a young couple. A complete triangle of cheesecake and an equally untouched square of pear tart wait in the wings for the pair to stop holding hands across the table and alternately murmuring and blushing to each other.

Aileen sighs. Imagine ignoring cheesecake. Pear tart, maybe, even though it’s really good here, but cheesecake is something different. Cheesecake is Not Common in Ukraine, and the overpriced slices in McCafés do little to engage Ukrainians in the idea that Cheesecake Is Fundamental. Maybe “fundamental” isn’t the right word, especially in a country without Philadelphia—or any kind of—cream cheese. Domashny cyr—literally “home cheese”, between cottage cheese and farmer’s cheese—just doesn’t do it, and syrok, the small white rectangles of supersweet dairy wrapped in waxy paper, is too sugary to do anything with. Ah, cream cheese. To say nothing of peanut butter.

The red borsch and onion pie arrive just in time.