Winter 07

The coffee bar downstairs is full of Russian men. One man is telling a story, the others listen with their whole bodies, they seem united as a group; it's primitive, sexy also, potentially dangerous, but not right now and not against me.

It's nine in the morning, for some reason the bar is playing Fado, sad Portugese music. I have an espresso in front of me, then another.

The Russian men smoke cigarettes down to their fingertips, drink shots of vodka. They do this all day: drink and smoke, tell stories and listen to them with their whole bodies; they love each other. Just don't tell them I said so.

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	The Men By Adam Jeffries Schwartz

	The coffee bar downstairs is full of Russian men. One man is telling a story, the others listen with their whole bodies, they seem united as a group; it's primitive, sexy also, potentially dangerous, but not right now and not against me. It's nine in the morning, for some reason the bar is playing Fado, sad Portugese music. I have an espresso in front of me, then another. The Russian men smoke cigarettes down to their fingertips, drink shots of vodka. They do this all day: drink and smoke, tell stories and listen to them with their whole bodies; they love each other. Just don't tell them I said so. >>> More

	Adam Jeffries Schwartz, a two-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize, is a writer and a traveler. His essay, "My Glamorous Mother", is in the LAMBA nominated anthology, Walking Higher. Other stories show up in many places, including: Descant, Driftwood & Laika Poetry Review. This year he is in Europe, looking around, seeing what's what.