Me and you

Me and him

Me and her 

Me, him and her 

text extract

Marina Noskova

2024

very Important Prologue  

M was still asleep. I was making breakfast, determined to start the day as perfectly as possible. The perfect breakfast, the perfect shower, epilation.  

Should I shave my legs or not?  

When dating men, I always shave everything, but this time I wasn’t sure.  

What if, without hair, I wouldn’t look queer enough to her, and she’d see right through me? What if she thinks I’m not a “real” bisexual? She’d look at my smooth legs and say, “Ugh, pandering to male beauty standards. Did you know women didn’t even shave their legs before Gillette launched that marketing campaign in the 1915 to sell razors to women?”  

Yes, I knew.  

Maybe I am just That straight-bi girl who isn’t really interested in women and is only looking for the same dominating men in them? Who will solve their problems, take responsibilities, make life safe, tell how beautiful they are and give presents. 

I don’t know if I’m searching for The man in women, but perhaps once I find him, I’ll finally stop liking women at all?  

Standing with the razor in hand, my leg propped up on the washing machine, I imagined a world where I’d never again feel the electric thrill of remembering how R looked into my eyes before our first kiss, how K grabbed my hand during truth or dare, or how excited I was making that Valentine card in sixth grade for J…  

I felt empty.

Fine. I’m shaving.  

Morning coffee is my favorite time: even if you woke up too late, missed everything, or life is a mess…first warm nutty smell, coffee kicks in and makes it all disappear. At least for 30 minutes.  

And for those 30 minutes, somehow everything feels right again.  

__________________________________________________________________________________________

The coffeeshop named Zenit was placed in the middle of small serbian town we lived in. S arrived on her bike, her long curly hair were piled into a bun on top of her head. Stray tendrils fell onto her shiny glasses, their tips sticking to her full, burgundy-painted lips.  

A mix of terror and excitement shot through me and pooled at the corners of my mouth, that couldn’t stop smiling.  

“Hi! So nice to finally meet you!”  

She shook my hand in the Serbian way. M had told me that here, everyone shakes hands. I was still smiling.  

“Likewise. Finally.”  

Trying not to sound smug, I leaned back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other. I was wearing a short polka-dot dress.  

“I’ll go place my order and be right back!”  

She dropped her yellow backpack on the chair. I exhaled, relieved. I grabbed some artsy book off the shelf and flipped through it.  

Some meaningless red and gray triangles. Like her pants. Beutiful. This book would’ve been a hit with the Man.  

The Man had been wanting to introduce me to S for a while. He’d said how similar we were, how much she wanted to meet me. I had thought about it for long before responding.  

With women, I feel particularly vulnerable. Exposed.  I am assured they just instantly see right through me.  

The last time I’d been with a woman was six years ago. Back then, I was surprised to find that the lesbian porn I’d watched throughout my childhood actually made sense. But what if I can’t make her come? What if she’s prettier than me and doesn’t even look my way? What if she’s more passionate and notices that I haven’t created anything in a year? That I’m hollow, that I’ve traded my artistic ambitions for a fear.  

The Man thought we had a lot in common. At first, he suggested we all have wine together, then started hinting at a threesome. By that time, we’d been sleeping together for three months. At some point, I thought I felt something for him, but it turned out to be false. Sometimes, I think I want to love someone so badly that I convince myself it’s real, even when there’s nothing there.  

Maybe that’s why I have so much meaningless sex. Because during sex, it feels like love. Like I love someone.  

I love sex. With three people, four, five.  

“Let me think about it, ” I said to the Man as he made us breakfast in his Art Nouveau-style kitchen. Wooden beams, arches, walls lined with potted plants, vintage furniture. Once an attorney’s office, it was now his apartment, as is often the case in Serbia.  

“But no pressure, ” he said. “You two should meet first, see how it goes…”  

S brought my flat white, carrying her bumblebee latte in a tall glass on a wooden tray. She joked about how that habit was a remnant from her years working in hospitality.  

“It doesn’t go away, ” she said.  

I leaned back in my chair again. God, it was hot in this blazer. M had suggested several times that I wear this polka-dot dress, but every time I tried it on, something felt wrong. My waist didn’t seem slim enough, my arms too full.  

“Oh, come on. I think liqueurs are perfect for a first date.”  

“It’s too feminine! What about that cat T-shirt of yours?”  

The memory flashed through my head, and there I was, standing in the dress before the mirror again. Fine, I’d throw the blazer on top. It would make me look more delicate. Yes, much better.  

Slowly, I removed the blazer as S talked about her unfinished university degree, how she left Russia two years ago, and how she opened a coffee shop here in Serbia.  

“I like your dress. It’s beautiful.”  

“Thanks.”  

I smiled again. I could tell she liked me. She suggested we move to the smoking area.  

We shifted to the right side of the café, which wasn’t separated by anything, a rarity in Serbia, where nearly every area is for smokers.  

She placed a cigarette between her burgundy lips, took a short drag, and exhaled. Then she looked at me. I loved how her carefully mascaraed lashes framed her glasses, how they made her gaze sharp and captivating. She looked me right in the eyes. I stared back at her glasses.  

“I make films. Experimental stuff mostly, but lately, I haven’t shot anything at all. The visa process eats up all my time. So many issues have come up. I got detained for overstaying in Germany, and a friend here in Serbia said, ‘Come over.’ So, here I am.”  

“We’re all here by chance…”  

S stared into the void as she tapped the ash from her cigarette.  

I recognized that look: a look of quiet despair without the energy to analyze or hope, a muted shock from endlessly realizing you’ve left and might never return. I see that look often when conversations turn to leaving. Every time, it’s almost the same story.  

__________________________________________________________________________________________

When Russian tanks invaded Ukraine, many fled Russia. In every European country, there are communities of post-war Russian immigrants: in Tallinn, small in number but close-knit, mostly refugees due to Estonia’s strict immigration rules; in Berlin, ambitious, often well-known media professionals with leftist leanings, speaking three languages and earning moderate incomes. Meanwhile, in Serbia, the Russian immigrant community seemed filled with weary, disillusioned people with hollow gazes.  

They tried to resurrect their old lives in a country that so closely resembled Russia, clinging to the desperate hope that only the good things would stay.  

Russia in a mirror. Immigrants in Wonderland. They jumped into the abyss and landed here, in Serbia.  

The language seemed similar to Russian, just the words seemed to be inside out. M and I often laughed at them. We didn’t have many reasons to laugh, but we looked for them. M was a political refugee. Over tea and her third cigarette on the balcony, M explained Serbia to me: where and how to talk, where to exchange money, and how to pay for bus tickets (or rather, not to, because none of us knew how to buy a ticket, so we always walked everywhere).  

Each month, we had to do a “visa run” to renew our visa periods.  

“Don’t worry, it’s quick. Just walk across the Serbian border with a group, stand in the smokers’ area for five minutes, and come back. The first time, we’ll go together. Don’t be scared.”  

The dinar, Serbia’s currency, was nearly equivalent to the ruble.  

Our cards are useless abroad, so exchanging cash with strangers is a routine we can not obey. Apart from Russian immigrants, practically no one else did visa runs or exchanged cash, so nothing to worry about: no strangers here. 

So here it was: Russia in a mirror.