A transcript of a conversation I had with my husband at a Russian Vodka Bar.
(To set the scene, the bar is dimly lit and is decorated with richly upholstered couches, red velvet curtains and propaganda posters. Boy and I are decked out in our finest – him in dress shoes, black pants, black vest and navy pin striped shirt, me in heels and a spaghetti strapped Aubergine dress with a sweetheart neckline. By the time this conversation takes place, we have each had at least three martinis.)
Boy: I’ve made a decision. I think I am made for a life of crime. Preferably the Russian Gangster kind.
Boy: Yes. I like looking dressed up and I think sitting in a shady backroom cutting deals under the table would suit me.
Me: I suppose it would be exciting for you.
Boy: You’d be there too.
Me: I would?
Boy: Of course. You’d be in the background, stretched across the couch looking generally disinterested. But before I made my decisions, I would consult you and you would help me . . .
Me: By either winking or saying niet?
Me: Would I get to wear slinky cocktail dresses?
Boy: Of course.
Me: I’m in.