The Year of the bears
J. Nicole Jones —Were you there the year the bears came? But what am I saying? Of course not, you would be dead! —Forgive me, my boy, it seems my clap on your arm has spilled your drink. But what scrawny shoulders you have! Young men are not what they used to be . . . Let me buy you another and regale you with an old man’s stories, the only thing he has left! —No, no, I insist! But do not ask me how I escaped alive. It is a story too unbearable to relive. Harhar! Oh, but it is no trouble at all. You are kind to forgive an old man his indulgences. I can tell that you are a true Russian. —What’s that, my boy? How true, my new friend! Indeed, the snow is falling heavy now. We are stuck here, just as you say, with nowhere to go. Country travelers thrown together by a contrivance of fate and fickle weather. —But do not be so hasty! I shall accompany you back to your corner perch—a darkened post for romantic interludes. Your companion is quite the looker. Do not think I did not notice the curving of her winter coat. —Ah, your wife, you say? Married a month? But I must buy you another round! A carafe for my good friend! —It is no trouble at all, my young friend, no trouble. A toast to the newlyweds! And now I will accompany you to toast your shapely bride in person. I will not hear of it! It is not any trouble, I have told you! You must stop your protests. Let this story be my wedding gift to you. Let me warm your hearts—and possibly your beds!—with tales of man’s intellect.