(11/03/25)
Funny enough that they all will know about each other in any sense; but it comes like this. I do the fighting and then I need air (which is, notably, logic), and so I text the Russian; but the Russian from France, the one with the poems and the movies and so on and so forth; and we say : lets meet. Well Wonderful. And so I walk, tralalal, all the streets of Paris, until I arrive exactly where a French person is supposed to sit, and there he comes, the French bar tender, a friend of the French Russian, and he gives us a glass of wine that we could not afford in another way. So we sit and sit and she tells me about her friend, from Ukraine (funny also, you get what I say means funny), and about him is to say that he is married to a French guy, while though he believes he is not gay. But he looks gay. And he acts gay. I say this almost sassy: because I am gay. So this to this, and we sit there, and then the Russian French says, that it is always the same with him, that he always, every time, wants to separate, but then can't, because his husband is so beautifully rich and all. And so I tell him about my own marriage, I say, I get you, although I am not married yet. When I say what I say I see in his eyes he is carefully listening. And reflecting, I guess. It does in the end not all matter, because there comes one more, so shy that she almost doesn't look at the table, nor at the floor, but inside, and so we shift the conversation, because I understand that without me they had no reason not at all to speak English. So I grateful.