Anton wore a tattoo of a Kalashnikov over his heart. I know for a fact that he'd never fired one, never even seen one outside of a military history museum. I figure that's probably most of the people with an automatic weapon tattoo, but his was different. It was just the silhouette, done in black, like on the flag of Mozambique, and it was small, just a bit bigger than a playing card.
He talked about it a lot, the AK, what it meant. How the soviets built them so cheap they could give them away for free to any communist-friendly army. How during the Vietnam war guerrillas could hide them under water in rice paddies and pull them out weeks later still ready to fire. How they represented a design so simple, powerful, and effective that they killed more people every year than all three atom bombs.
At my height, as he came to me first thing the morning, up before me as always, it was right at eye level as I mashed my nose against his chest.
Morning sprout.
Good morning!
You sleep okay?
I woke up for a while and read.
That bed is awful he said.
Yeah. Even though it wasn't the bed but feeling sad and strung out and adjusting to east coast time and watching my dad's wife pull her hair out and emote all over the place over a man she met four years ago.
You wanna go out and find some real coffee? I used the last of the unflavored yesterday, and I don't wanna get the stinkeye for monopolizing the machine.
Oh you know what actually hazelnut caramel sounds great, let's have that with a little titanium dioxide laced french vanilla fat free half and half creamer product.
I google mapped the starbuck's.
Good ant.
He held me against his chest again, squeezing tighter and tighter, from the sides just like I like.
Get dressed, she'll be up anytime and it'll be weirder to run out just as she's getting up.
Okay.
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