Perfect Smiles are Hard to Come By (On Cowardice)

We drove through a tunnel built to create a direct route through the mountains. As structures went, it was frightening and claustrophobic; water streaming and dripping along the walls as though inviting a collapse. Before we entered I was given one last view of Lake Sevan, a stream of fog rolling across the mountains and into the water.

On the other side were the beautiful forests of Dilijan.

As we exited the tunnel we were swallowed by mist, forcing us to slowly descend the mountain road that went back and forth like a slithering snake. At one of the bends in the road we stopped by a woman sitting in front of a boiling iron pot. My friend paid the woman a small sum and she pulled out two ears of corn, putting on a dash of salt on each before handing them over.

As I took mine she asked my friend if I was married, having assumed that I was neither Armenian nor spoke the language. He told her no, to which she responded "Soon enough," and smiled her half toothed smile.

There were plenty of corn sellers along the road, he told me, but he liked her best.

We arrived at the hotel, a large run down building that during soviet times served as the writer's union of Armenia. Waiting for us was a staff that had never learned the basics of customer service, greeting us with frowns and annoyance.

Soon the rooms would be filled with guests arriving for the week long seminar.

That night at dinner I met a woman, a journalist from Stepanakert. She was energetic, intelligent and funny. People were clearly drawn to her personality, swarming around her and trying to attract her attention.

During the meetings on the following day she was being intentionally contrarian, upsetting the self-important woman who was tasked with running the seminar.

I liked her immediately.

We bonded over cigarettes. She would approach me and we would smoke, talk, and slowly reveal to each other our respective pasts. She showed me photos of her life, I described to her why I left mine. That night we drank in celebration of one of the guests becoming a father. The drink went to our heads and I returned to my room shortly thereafter.

The following morning she was gone.

It occurs to me that my words and actions have too often been stunted by cowardice. Life is defined by the opportunities we seize and the ones we let slip through our fingers. I too often dwell on what could have been, trying to soothe myself by concluding that the likelihood was nothing; torturing myself by never really knowing for sure.

She had a wonderful smile, I should have told her so.