Bohemian Gypsy Encampment, 2012ce
Borough of Brooklyn,
He awakes on Onderdonk Fields and she is still in his arms, tits still plump and cutely snoring. She is warm and breathing deeply and clutching his hand to her ample breasts and thus is pressing her body against and besides him. Very much engorged he presses his hardness into the plump of her buttocks as if waiting for her to wine.
It was Sunday and everything would repeat itself again. Indecisive lusty flirtations with nothing to support the imagined memories and Oleg the bear stood by taking pictures. The festival of the Gypsy’s continued as the city braced for Monday West Indian Day parade. The dress rehearsal for any insurrection.
Eventually Sunday evening Natasha and Sebastian broke camp and headed towards the underground. They arrived at a small tavern across the street from the faded green light posts of the L underground train in bombed out warehouse zones of so called “East Williamsburg”. The tavern is paneled in old wood and is made up like some old school prohibition tavern; the name of the joint is the “Cobra Club”. It professes to combine mixology and light yoga. Much to the delight of Sebastian who cannot think of two activities worse suited for each other than drinking and yoga, perhaps drinking and driving an ambulance.
And it was here that he notices that Natasha has a dragon fly necklace and matching wrist bracelet, which he had not notices previously adorning her. Although not on her person for the previous two and part days of festival, now they were back on. And that all other times which has been twice before the festival she was wearing some accessory piece with this image it occurs to him. How curious.
“What then does the dragonfly symbolize?” he asks her.
“It doesn’t symbolize anything. I just like the way it looks,” she responds.
Impossible it seems to gauge if she is lying he thinks. After three days of general revelry, they are both a little out of body.
“Your eyes are now green,” she smiles.
“Normally they are,” he starts.
“Hazel, I know,” she smiles.
“And yours are now silver where before they were blue.”
“What kind of American are you? You’re not like them and yet you are them and you are certain qualities that are Russian and yet not of us at all.”
“I could help you with your anything.”
“But I need nothing from you. Not even physical help.”
“Where are you and we gonna be when the weekend is over,” he asks.
“You’re indomitable woman.”
“Are you a jealous man?” she asks.
He looks into her thinking he could learn to be. There had been some deliberation on option, such are her joining him in the Hamptons at the family dacha or participating in the West Indian Parade. Nevertheless, politely she said he could take her number and call her later since she had to soften the conspicuous blow to her keeper inflicted by two night’s disappearance.
“I do not know if we shall meet again stranger, but I did enjoy you,” she explained and then they took the L toward the city and went their separate ways.
In his sketch book on a drawing they colored together she wrote in Russian; “Shame that it all will end.” Though you could translate that several different ways.