Something Nefarious and Confidence Shattering (On Miscalculation)

2006. I am in a part of Yerevan known as Kond. It is nighttime in mid-November. The temperature has dropped sharply. I am seated on a fourth floor balcony, surrounded by lingerie hanging from a clothes line, empty boxes and kittens.

I am in a t-shirt and the cold was becoming unbearable.

The kittens are cute but many and they have yet to learn how to control their claws.  Their tiny little claws, like the edges of thin paper, strike my bare arms repeatedly, cutting through my skin with barely visible scratches that have begun to bleed.

I occasionally huddle with one or more of the kittens in an attempt to keep warm.

Within the apartment itself an argument continues; a lover's quarrel rooted in jealousy sparked by my presence. I contemplate various escapes. Including the outlandish notion of climbing below, one balcony at a time. But, as I am a coward, I choose to wait instead.

Freezing, drunk, and allergic to cats, I sit for forty-five minutes reviewing how I here.

A few months prior my friend Sergey had arrived in Yerevan to visit his family and celebrate my birthday. Sergey lived in Moscow at the time and took the short flight down, remaining for four days. As with many of my nights that first year in Armenia (and previously in Los Angeles), as soon as the sky darkened we began to drink.

This drinking took place at a bar called Cheers, a place where expats and hip locals would frequent prior to the explosion of bar culture in Yerevan. That night we were acquainted with Bianca, also an expat, who had come to Armenia to discover her Armenian roots after learning about the death of her estranged father.

Bianca was friendly, smart and attractive, and as such would normally have nothing to do with gentleman such ourselves. Yet, though many of the men at the bar were flirting with her, it was Sergey, through humor and will, that managed to steal her attention.

That night she joined in our revelry until the excessive head spinning informed us all that it was time to go home. 

A month later I was at cheers again. Bianca was there too, along with her Kuwaiti Armenian boyfriend and his cousin. As Americans in a new, strange land, Bianca and I quickly bonded and by the end of the night had exchanged numbers with the intent to hang out. 

A few days later Bianca called and invited me to her place. 

I arrived shortly after sunset. Luckily I had written the instruction she had given me to navigate the maze-like path that led to her door. The door was opened by her boyfriend, behind him, sitting on the couch was his cousin. Bianca stepped into the living room as I walked in, a bottle of tequila in one hand, snack food in the other.

As we drank I got to know Bianca better. She had saved a litter of wild kittens from the yard behind her building. She was half Armenian, but had only learned that when she learned the identity of her father after his death. Prior to living in Armenia, she was a chef in  Los Angeles and I learned we  used to frequent many of the same locales.

As the drinking got heavier and the conversation more about Los Angeles,  her boyfriend became more and more agitated. And though I was aware of it, I was having a good time and too drunk to care.

Ten minutes later Bianca, sitting across from me, and in view of the cousin, spread her legs open providing me full visual access to her very red panties. This was clearly an alcohol induced act, and also it seemed, intentional, given that when the cousin motioned for her to bring her knees together she instead raised her skirt and spread her legs wider.

I would be lying if I said it was an unpleasant memory.

The cousin confided in the boyfriend and in turn the boyfriend tried to put an end to the evening by very loudly and aggressively announcing that he was leaving. There was a look of shock and anger their faces as Bianca told me to stay and escorted them out the door.

She poured another round of shots. As we downed them there was a knock on the door. The boyfriend had returned and asked for a moment alone, suggesting I step out onto the balcony.

When the door finally opened, it was the boyfriend  who was on the other side.

He informed me that Bianca was "very tired" and asked me to leave. I was happy to oblige. As I entered the living room I  noticed some changes. In one corner was a broken bottle,. In another some shattered shot glasses. Where the coffee table was, now there was a fold out bed, on top of which was Bianca under what seemed like a pile of blankets.

Were I more sober and less desirous to return home I may have concluded there that something nefarious and confidence shattering had occurred. Instead I walked the fold out bed and was startled when Bianca's head peeked out as though a turtle succumbing risking safety to satisfy curiosity.

She said goodnight.

I said goodnight back.

She shifted back under the covers. I crossed the threshold. The door slammed behind me. I was free. I walked a few blocks, then hailed a cab. Eventually I was in bed, and would not leave it for a week due to high fever, chills, and aches.

I would never see Bianca again.

A year or so later I ran into the boyfriend and cousin. Accompanying them were two women in slinky clothes and heavy make-up. Time seemed to have healed his ego as he was both friendly and polite when we spoke.

Our conversation was short. They seemed occupied. Right before we parted ways though, I asked how Bianca was doing. 

"She's in Los Angeles right now," he said with a smile, "But once she's back we're moving to Kuwait City. We're getting married."