Last night, authentic Kyrgyz dinner at Robert and Michelle's place: lamb, rice, potato/cucumber soup, Blow Pops. Vodka shots with pickle chasers. "You need an older woman," everyone tells me.
Bright and quiet and cold. All the cars outside my window are gone, presumably home to small-town Iowa, whence the sorority sisters originate. The things of my apartment sit innocuously atop one another. They are content to rest. I am an object among objects. There is a sense of waiting.