Freaky Belarussian girls with too much time on their hands spending it
at the gym most days. You see them mincing the streets of Minsk, with
their finely muscled legs gleaming like statuary in the low late winter
sun. It's fucking 9 p.m. and the sun is still in the sky, which is
somehow perverse.

You suggest the night train to Moskva for some dancing & ?, but they
rebuff you. "Moskva is so over," they sniff, firing up another Gitane.
"Skinny porno whores, gangsters, new money, the young with their jones
for party memorabilia & dumpy square automobiles -- Moskva's got its
head up its muthafuckin ass."

Glumly you look at the floor. What's it take to penetrate their cement
hearts? Blue jeans! The old standby. The current rage, vintage jeans
from the late 70's. Gloria Vanderbilt, Sergio Valente,
see asses walking down the streets of Vitsyebsk that bring back
memories, the same exact ass as Debbi Williamson walking out of 5th
period Spanish! Here, half a world & lifetime away, under the awning of
a sinking white russian sun.

She's an old gymnast. Old in the sense she's over 20. From the rubble
of the Soviet Superathlete Program, she struts. Enough gymnastics to
give her the lovely and intricate definition in her legs, but not so
much to have turned her stringy and freaky like old reindeer jerky.
She's got both periods and breasts, and the pointy shoes so the rage
these days. She's got a rubberbanded electric shock of hair and a
boyfriend named Yevgeny who's on an oil platform in the Baltic, where
ferries go to die. And when Eugene's away the mice will play! It's off
to the Chunnel for us, and Carnaby Street, and Edinburgh. We'll find us
a loch by which to fuch.