P.C.C.

A Russian man with an intimidatingly large build walked up to me this week. There was something about how he always looked mad, like some evil Russian movie villain, that suggested he meant serious business. And owned guns.

“You are absolutely gorgeous,” he said. Like he was pissed.

Dear Lord.

“Aw, thank you!” Please go away.

“Can I buy you dinner?”

“Nooo thank you! I’m..not. Hungry.”

“Do you have boyfriend?”

“Yes! He’s really great.”

“For how long, you be with this person.”

“Um, years now. Several years.”

“He buy you diamond? Where is big diamond?”

“Ohhh… well. I don’t. We’re not engaged.”

“He with beautiful woman for years and no diamond? This is wrong?”

“You know what? My girl Ternisha, just over there, I think she’s single!”

“Is she like you?”

“No, actually – I just thought it would be funny if you…went over there and. Bugged. Her.”

Just before he gave up, he shook his head with every ounce of Disapproving Russian Man he had in him. And as eccentric as the whole thing was, I couldn’t help but look down at my hand… and wonder if something was wrong.

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