Maria Iskandorj was no more.
She left her names behind, the life of the country, her husband and lived in her apartment writing articles for the music press like she had before her life had changed. Before she had become enamoured of a quiet Russian with his guitar, before she had moved away with him to start a fairytale beginning.
But it was not where she was to be, in that role, in that location, with him. What she had loved him for had gradually distanced them. He spoke rarely and tended to his vegetable patch most of the day, growing plants and watching the night sky when it grew dark. He didn?t play the balailaika anymore, either.
And so alone, with her oversized leather jacket, smokes, rosary beads and lucky marble, she was that forever brooding teen at heart, watching from afar the relationships and trends of a city grow and thrive and change, while she, she wrote about music, and showered and ate and busied herself with getting up to date on newest releases.
It was strange how she did not miss the life she had been living for months. It was as though it had all never taken place. That absence of anything material to stir feeling more than memory was what startled her as she stood with cigarette watching the rain peeter down the drains and pipes. It wasn?t a very elegant departure though. She had left hastily with all that was hers. The house, her husband were not transferable, were not things, she realised dimly, had ever been hers in the first place. She had been too young to marry. To independent at heart. Too smitten to see that she could not save Anastas from his past.
And there, with the rain and a quickly embering cigarette, she missed Rena, she missed Dracos, she missed her walks around the city. But more than all, she missed being okay with being alone.
She left her names behind, the life of the country, her husband and lived in her apartment writing articles for the music press like she had before her life had changed. Before she had become enamoured of a quiet Russian with his guitar, before she had moved away with him to start a fairytale beginning.
But it was not where she was to be, in that role, in that location, with him. What she had loved him for had gradually distanced them. He spoke rarely and tended to his vegetable patch most of the day, growing plants and watching the night sky when it grew dark. He didn?t play the balailaika anymore, either.
And so alone, with her oversized leather jacket, smokes, rosary beads and lucky marble, she was that forever brooding teen at heart, watching from afar the relationships and trends of a city grow and thrive and change, while she, she wrote about music, and showered and ate and busied herself with getting up to date on newest releases.
It was strange how she did not miss the life she had been living for months. It was as though it had all never taken place. That absence of anything material to stir feeling more than memory was what startled her as she stood with cigarette watching the rain peeter down the drains and pipes. It wasn?t a very elegant departure though. She had left hastily with all that was hers. The house, her husband were not transferable, were not things, she realised dimly, had ever been hers in the first place. She had been too young to marry. To independent at heart. Too smitten to see that she could not save Anastas from his past.
And there, with the rain and a quickly embering cigarette, she missed Rena, she missed Dracos, she missed her walks around the city. But more than all, she missed being okay with being alone.