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As he talks animatedly about Carrie and Samantha, I can’t help but wonder why him liking this show seems so significant, so full of portent. Why it feels like we have so much more in common now versus ten minutes ago. I mean, it’s just a TV show, right?
In general, I don’t like this feeling in my chest. Between his hand on my knee and the pleasant fatigue from the gourmet meal in my belly, the fiction and reality of our marriage are blurring, and that’s very dangerous.
Nothing has changed. He still just wants a green card and nothing else. He still—
“Wait a second,” Art says with mocking sternness. “My dick’s nickname—that’s a Sex and the City reference, isn’t it?”
My eyes are drawn to his crotch, and my face flushes crimson. “Does that make him feel less special?”
Art laughs. “I actually thought Carrie’s Mr. Big was kind of a dick, so this is fitting. She should’ve ended up with Baryshnikov instead.”
I decide it is long past time to change the topic. “You mentioned your list?”
He nods and sends me a text. “The highlighted movies star Baryshnikov in them.”
I check my phone. Hmm. If it were just the movies with his idol in them that were unfamiliar, that would be one thing. But I have never heard of any of these. Some even sound made up, like The Diamond Arm, The Irony of Fate or Enjoy Your Bath, and The Caucasian Captive.
“Are these real?” I ask. “I consider myself a movie buff, but I’ve never come across these.”
He pats my knee. “And therein lies the problem. Sex and the City might not be enough to make this relationship work.”
I grin. “That’s arguable. One can get far on Sex and the City.”
He turns on the TV. “How about you show me yours, and then I show you mine?”
Are we still talking about movies?
“How about we watch Dirty Dancing?” I suggest. “Just bear in mind, said dancing isn’t ballet.”
We put the movie on, and somehow, I end up curled against him on the couch as if we were an old married couple. He drapes his arm over my shoulder, and I gulp in lungfuls of his tantalizing scent, feeling so warm and safe that I want to melt into a puddle.
Speaking of puddles, my underwear feels distinctly damp.
When the credits roll, he tells me the movie was great, and that we should see The Irony of Fate or Enjoy Your Bath next.
If it means we’ll stay on the couch like this, I’ll watch anything, even Glitter.
When the movie starts, I understand why I’ve never heard of it. It was made in the Soviet Union, in the seventies.
Art pauses the movie early and says, “Just so you’re aware, this is a classic that gets broadcast every New Year’s Eve—which is the Russian answer to Christmas.”
“What do you mean?” I feel a yawn coming on, but I suppress it. I’m too cozy to leave this spot, plus I’m dreading the temptation of the bedroom.
This couch is bad enough.
He hugs me tighter. “In Russia, people decorate fir trees, exchange gifts, and even have a Santa equivalent named Grandpa Frost… all on New Year’s Eve.”
How am I supposed to think straight like this?
“Does Grandpa Frost look like Santa?” I somehow ask.
“In that he’s an old guy with a bag of gifts and a white beard.” With his free hand, Art pulls up a picture on his phone. “I think he started off as the Russian spirit of frost, but later got cross-pollinated with depictions of Santa.”
“Wait.” I point at a female in the picture. “Is that Mrs. Clause?”
He pulls back to give me a horrified look. “Can’t you see how young she is? That’s his granddaughter, Snegurochka, a.k.a. The Snow Maiden.”
Huh. “What about his wife? What about Snegurochka’s parents?”
