I am sitting in my apartment alone smoking a cigar that I managed to preserve quite well after storing it in the refrigerator for six months. My friend Zaven, who is my compatriot in film and cigar appreciation, gave me a few to take back to Yerevan with me the last time I was in Boston, and every once in a while I treat myself to one. They are torpedo shaped, very smooth, with a good draw. And with the cigar I am occasionally sipping a few drops of Black Label scotch whiskey that I inherited from my uncle just before he left town a couple of weeks back. I consider myself a very light drinker these days, in fact I only drink on special occasions, save for a glass of cold beer at the end of a sweltering day or on weekends. Across the way a man is singing Armenian folk songs in an apartment—I am guessing he is a guest of the family who lives there since I have never heard anyone sing such songs. Either that or the owner of the house has been drinking and is feeling lively enough for song. Once in a while some neighbors step out on the balcony to look around and see where the singing is coming from. After about 10 seconds or so they wander back inside and forget about it. I think to myself that it is refreshing to hear authentic Armenian melodies in a country that is hell-bent on finding anything that may be conceived as being better than what they already have, no matter how fantastic it may be.
It’s strange to be on my own again. I became very used to the pleasant convenience of a wife to keep me company and love me. Now that she’s away in Costa Rica to study, I am trying to keep myself busy as much as possible. Working two jobs is still not enough to preoccupy me. Thankfully I can write to kill spare time.