I'm taking Russian classes. My daughter’s boyfriend is Russian. He doesn’t speak the language, but he can understand it, my daughter says. He was born here but his parents are Russian, both of them. I haven’t met his parents, and I don’t think I ever will. My daughter says her boyfriend hasn’t spoken to his parents in a long time. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t want to pry. They’ve been together a while, my daughter and her boyfriend. Last year, when they moved in, I asked her when they were going to get married. She said she had to go and put the phone down.
             I’ve taken the first couple of lessons online. We started with the alphabet. My daughter says it’s probably not the best time to learn Russian and that I should have probably started with Duolingo and not waste my money on something I’ll never speak. I told her the school I enrolled in is very clear about not supporting the war on Ukraine, actually they condemn it, that’s the word they used. There is a big statement on their website about it, I told my daughter that. I also told her I didn’t just want to learn the language, I wanted to immerse myself in the culture too. As much as I can. And who says I’ll never speak it? She didn’t say it in so many words, but I know she thinks I’m too old for it. I did tell her that learning a new language delays the onset of Alzheimer’s. In any case, I will not have my grandchildren speak a language I do not understand. I told her that too and she said, Mum, who will teach my children Russian? Then she said she couldn’t believe we were talking about children she didn’t even have. And then I told her I could teach my grandchildren Russian. I told her by the time she gave me any grandchildren - which if I had to wait for her brother I’d be dead by the time they came - so I told her by the time she gave me grandchildren, I’d be able to read them War and Peace to bed. I was joking of course, I’m sure there are more suitable bedtime stories in Russian that would be just as effective in putting children to sleep. But by then my daughter had given up. She said she had to go. She was late for something or other. After I put the phone down, I remembered I should have told her that it isn’t an online course. I mean, it isn’t just online. It’s a hybrid format. You can attend the classes in person too. And I thought, I’ll suggest she comes with me one day. And I thought, I must ask the teacher when we’re going to cover the pronouns. She doesn’t visit often, my daughter, but I think she might be enticed by the lesson. She doesn’t call often either - every couple of weeks or so. I think she calls her father more often, but I don’t mind. 
             I have a son too. He has a complicated relationship with pronouns. Truthfully, I didn’t even know what a pronoun was until he changed his. I do understand my son when he says he doesn’t want to be defined. It sounds so permanent, to be defined. And he’s only 24. What I don’t get is the pronoun. If he doesn’t want to be defined by a pronoun then, instead of choosing another pronoun - a plural pronoun that has been forced into the singular, and be defined by that - shouldn’t he just be referred to interchangeably by all pronouns? Or just give up pronouns altogether? I know language has failed my son, but we have to work with what we have. And I’m aware I still refer to him by the pronouns he wants to escape from, but it’s okay. He doesn’t know. When I’m with him, I watch myself. In any case, like he said, pronouns don’t have any hold on his sexuality - that’s something else entirely. And I say, of course, of course, as if I understand what he means, but I’m reading up on it. It might seem like I talk to my son a lot. I don’t. He hardly calls. And he never visits. He’s got his own life now and I’m not a part of it. I’m not saying this with any resentment. I have been trying to experience mindfully the entirety of the human experience. And feelings of rejection are part of that experience and that’s okay. So, like I said, he’s got his own life now. A job and his own flat. Rented. A couple of flatmates. Two or three, I’m not sure. He never lets me visit. Sometimes I think I talk to my ex-husband more often than to my own children. But we do get together over Christmas, the four of us. The Russian boyfriend tags along. My ex-husband insists on it. He says we need to do it for the children, and I agree.
​​​​​​​             We’re still friendly, my ex-husband and I. He always sends me flowers on my birthday. Flowers and a pair of tickets to the ballet. I love the ballet. But I always go by myself. We separated six years ago. A month before my birthday. He said it wasn’t working out. We hadn’t had sex in three and a half years. I hadn’t realised he was counting. But he looks after me still. Financially, I mean. Every month when the money is wired into my bank account, I withdraw twelve and a half percent and I burn it on the hob. One note at a time. My meditation teacher says we shouldn’t hold on to the thoughts that appear in our heads. He says the thoughts that appear in our heads are not ours. They are just thoughts. Well, my thoughts might not be mine, but this money is, and I do with it whatever I please. I do call my ex-husband every now and then. To chat, you know. He hasn’t found anyone else yet. Even though he has an account at the same dating site I do. He opened it for me. I told him I didn’t want one. But he said, that’s how you meet people these days. He even chose my profile picture. I remember that picture. A wholesome picture of the pair of us at my daughter’s university when she was still choosing which university she’d go to. Of course he cropped himself out of the picture, but I was touched he’d saved it. It’s a dating site for divorcees looking for serious relationships. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, like our son, I didn’t want to be defined by a word. And I’m not looking for a serious relationship. I’d like something casual. Very casual. Only sex really. But I couldn’t possibly tell him that. Then I wouldn’t be able to explain why we hadn’t had sex for three and a half years. Then he’d know it was him and not me.
​​​​​​​             I bought a vibrator a couple of months ago. Online. And then I erased my browsing history. I know it’s silly. But just in case the children pop by and use my computer. Or God forbid, my ex-husband. It’s still in its original packaging with the plastic wrapper. I hid it behind the curtains in the living room. From the pictures I saw online, it looked like a sculpture. Or a plant - a cactus without the thorns. It didn’t look like a vibrator. That was why I bought it. Not long ago after the vibrator was delivered, my son came to see me in one of his sporadic visits and he saw a half-burnt note laying on the kitchen counter. What’s this Mum? He picked up the note. What does it look like? It’s a half-burnt twenty-pound note, I said. I don’t lie to my children. You’re destroying money now, Mum? I’m not destroying anything. I’m creating something new. Ashes. Isn’t there a cheaper way to create ashes? Of course there is, but not everything is about money, you know. He shook his head and walked out of the kitchen. I followed, asked him if he was seeing anyone. He said he didn’t want to talk about it. So I asked about his job. He told me about a new project he’d been assigned to about cryptocurrency and how he’d bought some crypto coins himself. I asked him how it worked. He showed me on my laptop, and I was glad I’d erased my browsing history. I started to feel sleepy. I realised I wasn’t interested in money that couldn’t be burnt, so I told him I was going to take a nap. But I just got here, he said. I know, but I’m tired. There are dried apricots in the pantry. The key is in the -, I’ll get it for you. Don’t bother, he said, slapped my laptop shut and left. I went to my bedroom and slept. When I woke up, I took out the photo albums. My daughter in the highchair starting to eat real food. She looked surprisingly clean. And she wasn’t smiling. She was concentrating on her spoon it seemed. There are other pictures, but I like this one. And my son, my son was standing precariously holding on to the glass top of the coffee table. Not the same one I have today, a different coffee table. It was the first time he’d managed to pull himself up, I remember that. I also remember the day the glass top of that coffee table shattered. They were grown then. I never thought I’d lose my children. Actually, that’s not true. Many times, I dreaded losing them in crowded supermarkets or shopping streets. All the details flooded my mind as if it had actually happened. The clothes they were wearing. The pitch of their cry as a stranger picked them up and took them. Or losing them to an illness or a car accident. But I never fathomed losing them the way I have.
​​​​​​​             When my birthday arrives, I receive the usual flowers and a pair of tickets to the ballet. I call my ex-husband. Thanks for the flowers and the tickets to the ballet, I say. You’re welcome, he says, but he doesn’t wish me happy birthday. I ask what he’s doing Saturday evening. He says he doesn’t know, probably nothing. Do you want to come to the ballet with me?
​​​​​​​             We meet at a bar a couple of streets from the opera house. There is enough time for a drink. I notice his hair is combed back and still a bit wet. We don’t talk much. We watch others chat around us. He looks at his watch and says we’d better go. He downs the rest of his pint of Guinness and wipes his mouth with his hand. I’ve barely drunk my wine, but I leave it there. We walk slowly even though it’s drizzling. I put my coat in the cloakroom, he chooses to keep his. There’ll be a long queue at the end to collect it, he says. I shrug, it’s not like we’re in a hurry to get anywhere. We take our seats. I leaf through the catalogue given to us at the entrance. He has his jacket draped over his lap. The lights go off and the show starts. There is such intensity to the performance. At some point one of the dancers runs as if in a race and throws herself in her partner’s arms like an arrow, feet first. You can hear the audience holding their breath. I think of my ex-husband’s slicked-back hair as if he wasn’t sitting right next to me. I think of the way he looked at his watch and said it was time to go, the way he downed his stout and wiped his moustache on his hand. I put my hand in-between his legs, under his jacket. He doesn’t look at me. He continues to enjoy the ballet. I continue to enjoy the ballet. But I wish I had my mouth on him.
​​​​​​​             At the end of the performance he offers to drive me home. I ask if he’d like to come in for a nightcap. At home I make him an Irish coffee the way he likes it - with whipped cream. He sits on his old armchair, takes a sip and says wouldn't I put a tad bit more whiskey in. I say, of course, and go to get the whiskey with pleasure. He pours more than a tad bit of whiskey in his coffee. It makes a hole in the smooth whipped cream. I sip my hibiscus tea. He looks around the place. He doesn't say anything. I don't think a lot has changed since he left. Not a lot has changed other than me. I down my hibiscus tea and stand up. I ask him to stand up. He seems bewildered but does as I say and places his Irish coffee on the coffee table next to the armchair. I look at him, there is cream on his moustache. I wipe it with the skirt of my dress. He smooths his moustache and thanks me. I look down at his belt and unbuckle it. His arms are limp by his sides. I lower his trousers, boxer shorts. I push him back down on the armchair, lift my dress, pull the crotch of my knickers to one side and, with my back to his chest, I sit on him. I hear him gasp as he enters me, and I also gasp because I’m so surprised. I don’t remember it feeling this way. He starts jerking on the chair and I wonder if I’m too heavy for him. He grabs my hips and moves them, but I’d prefer to stay still and try to place this feeling in time. He accelerates the movement of my hips. I hold the arms of the armchair to help me lift a little. I realise this up and down is probably good exercise. I think of my exercise videos. I stop thinking of my exercise videos. I must pay attention to what I’m doing, but he’s already finished. I stand up, straighten out my skirt and take his unfinished Irish coffee to the kitchen. I tip it in the sink and come back to the living room. He’s still sitting with his trousers down in the armchair. It’s time to go, I say. He says he can stay. I don’t want him to stay and I tell him so. Oh, he says. Then. What are you doing? I don’t know, I say, and I hand him his jacket. I don’t watch the window as he leaves. I go behind the curtain and I take out the vibrator box. I peel off the plastic wrapper and I open only very slightly the top flap. I close it again, put the box back behind the curtain and throw the plastic wrapper in the recycling bin. I have a shower and go to bed. I’m almost asleep when I realise what I’ve done. I jump out of bed, go to the recycling bin, take out the plastic wrapper and put it in the general waste. Thin plastic like this is never recyclable. I go back to bed and I sleep well.  
​​​​​​​             At my next Russian class, I attend it in person, and I make a friend. We go out for lunch after the lesson. She suggests the little café inside the Russian books bookshop a few blocks away. How wonderful, I say, I’ve never eaten Russian food before. She tells me it’s not a Russian café but an Italian café in the Russian books bookshop. I say that will do. She’s much younger than me and very pretty and lovely. She has two young children who live with their dad. I don’t ask why. I ask why she’s taking Russian. She says why not? I tell her about my daughter and her partner and the Russian grandchildren. She finds it all wonderful. I tell her about my son too, of course. She says we should meet more often, and I agree. We meet again a few days later in front of an unmarked door in the middle of Chinatown. She knocks and a large man with something hanging from inside his ear opens the door. I find it thrilling. She speaks to him things I can’t hear, and we go in. The place is dark even though there’s still daylight outside and the music is loud, but I find it lovely. We sit at a low table and are given the cocktail list. I really want to have a glass of wine, but I order the same thing she orders as she says it’s really very good and I’ll like it. I ask her if it’s very sweet. She says it is sweet, but they use sweetener not real sugar so it’s okay. Besides it’s really very good and I’ll like it. So I order one. We can’t really hear each other speak so we smile. She wiggles her torso on her seat to the music. She loves this tune, her mouth says. I nod and smile. It’s true it is a pretty good tune, very, what’s the word, atmospheric. Our drinks arrive. And it really is very sweet  like she said, but it’s actually not bad at all. I ask for a few more ice cubes to water the sweetness down a bit. Halfway through my drink I’m also wiggling to the music, not the same tune, of course, but another tune just as atmospheric. A couple of cocktails in and we are on the dance floor with our hands in the air like we just don’t care just like the song says. And I really don’t care. I’m really not one to care for things.
​​​​​​​             Next time I speak to my daughter I tell her about my new friend from Russian class. I also tell her that the words for orange the fruit and orange the colour are different in Russian. She says, huh, that’s interesting. And I agree because it really is an interesting fact, I find. She asks me, what are they? What are they what, I say. The words for orange the fruit and orange the colour, she says. Oh, you see, I’ve forgotten it now that you’ve put me on the spot like that. Don’t worry, Mum, she says. I do remember the word for cabbage, I say, and I tell her the word for cabbage in Russian. She repeats it. And she really does have a good pronunciation. Now, that’s a useful word, she says. I know she’s making fun of me. She knows I know she’s making fun of me. I tell her she can slide the word into conversation with her boyfriend. I already told you he doesn’t speak Russian, Mum. But you said he understands it, I say. He doesn’t eat cabbage, I don’t eat cabbage, she says. Well, you should. It’s good for you. She sighs and says she has to go. I ask her if she’s heard from her brother, but she’s already put the phone down. I look at the receiver and I remember the words for orange the fruit and orange the colour. I pick up a pen and write them on my hand so I can tell her next time she calls. Then I realise it’ll have faded by the time she calls again.
​​​​​​​             I phone my new friend from Russian class and invite her over. She arrives many hours later. It’s already evening, and I’ve already had dinner. I thought she wasn’t even going to turn up anymore. She sits in the living room, on the armchair. I ask if she’d like something to drink. She accepts and I go to the kitchen and make tea. I don’t take very long because I’ve just made myself tea so the water in the kettle is still hot. I pour it over fresh mint and take it to the living room. I hand her the mug. She holds it with both hands and blows on the steam. She looks at the glare of the TV which I muted when she arrived. We sit there and I feel that I need to fill the silence somehow and that’s when the doorbell rings and I’m relieved for a brief moment before I realise how late it is and that I’m not expecting anyone else. I walk to the front door and look through the peephole and I see red roses. They used to be my favourite flower. Not anymore. Sunflowers now. But he couldn’t have known. I open the door. I shouldn’t have invited him to the ballet. Good evening, he says, and he hands me the flowers. I thank him, smell the roses, touch a petal. They are really very nice roses. I wonder if he’s chosen them himself. I turn and walk in. He follows closing the door behind him. In the living room sitting on his old armchair is my new friend from Russian class, but she’s no longer holding her tea mug with both hands and blowing on the steam. She now has in one hand a red box. I notice the box is open. In the other hand she’s holding the vibrator. What has she done? Hi, she says, and she waves the vibrator at my ex-husband. I’ll let you two get acquainted, I say, and I go to the kitchen. There’s no water left in the kettle, so I fill it and put it to boil. I get a tall vase, fill it with water, cut the tips of each stem and place the flowers in the vase one by one. I smoke a cigarette by the kitchen window watching the moon. But I can't see the moon. I take one last drag and run the stub under water from the tap. And I wish I’d started smoking younger. As the tap runs, I imagine myself with my ex-husband and my new friend from Russian class. I wonder what I’d feel like with two penises inside me. I wonder, would I be too full? I pick up a lemon, cut it in half and suck on it. I make an Irish coffee and take it to the living room. They’re both looking at the silent TV. The vibrator and its box are nowhere to be seen. I hand my ex-husband the Irish coffee and he says that perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to have come in. My new friend from Russian class says she also needs to go. I say it's too bad and I offer them the other half of the lemon, but they decline. When they leave, I sit on the old armchair and get the packet of custard cream biscuits I’d left under it. I dunk the biscuit in the Irish coffee. The melted whipped cream now floats on the coffee like a heavy cloud. Before I realise it, I finish the packet and I’m full. I lick my fingers and I can taste lemon. I look behind the curtain and the red box is back where it was as if it’d never left.
​​​​​​​             The following day my ex-husband calls. He says he needs to see me and that it is important. He comes later in the day, rings the bell. I look through the peephole. He has his hands in his pockets. I open the door, show him in. We walk to the living room. He sits on his old armchair. I remain standing. I don’t go to the kitchen. I don’t make his Irish coffee. He doesn’t ask about my new friend from Russian class. He doesn’t enquire about the objects she held in her hands the night before. Won’t you sit down, he says. I sit down at the edge of the two-seater in front of him. He gives me a tender smile and looks out of the window. It’s spring, he says. I look out of the window as well. The cherry tree has blossomed. Throughout all the years we’ve been together he never struck me as one sensitive to the seasons. I clear my throat. He looks back into the room. Yes, he says and clears his throat as well. He smiles again, brings his hands together. I’m ill, he says. His words sit between us. They take a long time to reach my ears. I’m glad I didn’t make him an Irish coffee. How ill, I say. Very ill, he says, and he tells me what he’s got. I stand up, walk to the kitchen, get a lighter and my packet of cigarettes. I walk back to the living room, try to light a cigarette, the lighter doesn’t work. I walk to the kitchen again, get the match box. I walk back to the living room and finally light the cigarette. I take a long drag and fill the room with smoke. How long have you known, I say. Not long, he says. I take another long drag. He never smoked before, how can he be dying? I rest against the back of the sofa. Liar, I say, get out of my face. I point the cigarette towards the front door. He stands up and I notice he’s still wearing his coat. A winter coat. I know it’s hard, he says. And I imagine him putting his hat back on even though he doesn’t wear a hat. He’s never worn a hat. He leaves. I go to the window and I throw my packet of cigarettes at him. But it misses his hat.
​​​​​​​​​​​​​​             I don’t see him for a while. He calls, I don’t pick up. His secretary sends me flowers, I throw them in the bin. My new friend from Russian class stops coming to Russian class. Someone says something about her getting shared custody of her children. I sign up to a new dating site - one where the user’s profile is not as well defined. I meet people for coffee, lunch, breakfast, dinner, a walk in the park. I go to supper clubs. I make new friends. I kiss a few people. It’s on one of my dates that I see my son. He’s having dinner with a very pretty girl. I want and don’t want him to see me. I choose to pretend not to see him and I ask my date to change seats with me so I don’t keep on staring at my son and the pretty girl he’s having dinner with. The following day I call my son, he doesn’t pick up, so I leave a voice message. I say, I just wanted to chat, tell you I was talking to my new friend from Russian class about you. I told her, my youngest child works with cryptocurrency and they’ve bought a few crypto coins themself. Call me when you can, and I hang up. All this is true. I did tell my new friend from Russian class - when she was still attending Russian class - about my son. I try to call my daughter, but her phone is off. I don’t leave a message. I turn on the TV and I watch it on mute. I look at the curtain. I haven’t touched the red box since my new friend from Russian class opened it. It feels like a different object now that she’s touched it. I get the box from behind the curtain and I open it. I take the vibrator out and I hold it with one hand, then another. Then with both hands. It’s a little skinnier than I thought. The phone rings. I leave the vibrator and its box on the armchair and walk to the phone. It’s my son and he’s very upset. He’s seen me. He’s seen me yesterday at the restaurant, that’s what it is. He keeps on repeating the word mum. Mum, Mum, Mum. I tell him to calm down. Mum, Dad is dead, he says. And I don’t understand what he’s saying, of course dad is dad. I tell him to calm down. No, Mum, Dad died. What? How? When? When was it? I look at the bin, I can still see the last bunch of flowers he's sent me. My son keeps on telling me to calm down now. But I am calm. He says he'll come and get me and take me to the hospital where his dad is. Did you listen to my voicemail, I say. What voicemail, Mum? The one I just left you. No, I don't think so, it's not important, I'm talking to you now, he says. But it is, it is important. Where's your sister? She's with him, he says. At the hospital? Yes, at the hospital. I'm coming to get you, Mum, he says. I say okay and put the phone down. I walk back to the living room, get the vibrator and put it on the mantelpiece. I get the vibrator's box and throw it in the recycling bin. I make an Irish coffee. I put it on the coffee table next to the armchair. I look and look, but I can't find his hat. I take out my laptop and I order five Russian classics. In Russian, of course. I think the books will look good stacked on the shelf next to the new sculpture on the mantelpiece. I light a cigarette and go to have a shower. I leave the cigarette balancing on the edge of the bathroom sink. I watch the smoke. I imagine the cigarette falling and I walk into the shower. I wash my hair. The doorbell rings. I wonder who it is, and I let it ring.