One For My Enemy

Write me a tragedy, Lev Fedorov. Write me a litany of sins. Write me a plague of devastation. Write me lonely, write me wanting, write me shattered and fearful and lost. Then write me finding myself in your arms, if only for a night, and then write it again. Write it over and over, Lev, until we both know the pages by heart. Isn’t that a story, too?

If I ever decide to give my heart to you, Dima, then cut it out of my chest and keep it somewhere safe, where no one else can get to it. Keep it locked somewhere: Inside a needle, inside of an egg, which is inside of a duck, which is inside a hare, which is in an iron chest — and then bury it under our green oak tree, Dima, where no one will ever find it.

My daughters are diamonds. Nothing is more beautiful. Nothing shines brighter. And most importantly, nothing will break them.