I’ve had male suitors who kept calling for years after I stopped picking up the phone.
I’ve heard of guys crawling through windows and appearing naked in bedrooms.
You do not meet a Russian man, you are chosen by one.
You could be sitting in a banya, or at a café, and a man walks by, puts a fruit salad on your table, and gruffly says, “Enjoy.” If you eat the salad, it is a sign that you would like him to come talk to you.
And when I say “provide,” I don’t even necessarily mean in a monetary sense as much as in a paternal one.
This sense that they are obligated to look out for you, not because you’re weaker or feeble-minded, but because you — as the fountain from which life springs forth — are precious and valuable.
It was what I had dreamt of all those years when I read of dueling pistols and men of great action and few words. ”Suddenly, I wished my women’s studies professor from Sarah Lawrence were there.