The Wizard of Oz? Now she was such a language expert that
she didn't need a translator in Russia. O.E. took a few
seconds to find a suitable response. "Say something in
Russian."
"All right." Rebecca rattled off a Russian poem. When
she finished, she explained it to him. "That was 'Rain Flogs
My Face. . .' by Bella Akhmadulina-a poem about the
uncertainties of a new relationship. I thought it would be
appropriate."
"How un-Russian."
"What? You thought they only wrote about war, snow,
and vodka? They lust for each other plenty."
O.E. chuckled. "Your meeting. . . old dumpy guys, or
young blades? Any women?"
"Old and dumpy for the most part. All male, too."
"Horny toads?"
"Mostly not. Occasionally I get an obscure Russian
idiom for sex, followed by laughter. I'm familiar with most
of their euphemisms by now, so I can sling it back at them.
But I have to tell you that I don't need to go to Russia for
sexual abuse-I get it right here at home. I see it at my
current job. Also, the CEO at my first company did a major
number on me. All right here in the city."
"CEO. . . The manipulative jerk you mentioned? Tell
me."
Rebecca groaned. "I don't know if I want to go there,
O.E. It's a pretty sensitive thing with me. I'll tell you about it
someday. . . Maybe." She paused, and O.E. could tell she was
reliving something unpleasant. "Come to think of it, maybe
not. Forget about it."
That must have been bad. Rebecca didn't seem like the
type to avoid a discussion, so if she didn't want to talk, it
must have been pretty grisly. O.E. wasn't going to forget
about this, but he decided to drop it for now.
The conversation wound down and they made their
goodbyes, bon voyages, and best wishes. At the very last
minute, just before she hung up and almost like an
afterthought on her part, Rebecca promised to come by
Sunday evening and bring dinner. Then she was gone.
Oh my God, she likes me. She had actually made a date
with him. O.E. was tingling all over. He fist pumped the air
and gave thanks for his second chance with Rebecca. By
talking less, he had won her back again. He couldn't wait
until Sunday night.
Kay Samson might be right: he really should shut up.