From Russia…With Love.

It must be hard to go on a blind date if you’re in the KGB. I mean, think of all those questions you can’t really answer: What do you do, where do you live, what’s it like to assassinate a political dissident? You can’t talk about those things.

So I wonder about the evening ahead of the guy I saw on Broadway tonight. What CAN he talk about?

He’s about 5’11. Dark brown hair, cut close to his skull. Square face, roman nose. Straight, thick eyebrows over dark eyes that take in everything as he walks. Thin lips that could look cruel.

He’s wearing one of those double-breasted wool overcoats. Either there’s padding in the shoulders or he’s got an impressive physique. No matter, the coat’s too hot for the evening. He’s got to be sweating under it, but his intent, impassive face isn’t even flushed with heat.

And he’s holding a single, long-stemmed red rose. He’s holding it out, stock-straight up, and his elbow’s stiff, like he’s afraid the rose is actually made of plastique and he’s saving us from mass fiery annihilation.

He sees me staring and frowns slightly. Then he is past me, off to a hot new wine bar to meet a mystery lady.

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