"I'm sorry, I must get going now. There's an EU meeting today and I have to get ready," Poland says, and Russia feels a stabbing pain in her heart. Not because Poland is leaving, because she really hates Poland and Poland hates her and she doesn't even know why they still even talk after everything they've done to one another, but because Poland has friends. Friends. Poland has friends.
The thought of Poland having friends makes Russia want to simultaneously laugh and cry, because Poland, the butt of Europe's tragic jokes, has friends, and she, Russia, the great conqueror, does not.
"Ah, right, I understand," Russia says, even if she does not, "Good bye, Poland. I'll talk to you another time."
"Bye!" Poland's cheerful voice comes, and then there's a suddenly a long beeping sound and Russia knows she's hung up. Russia shakily puts the phone back onto the receiver and checks her watch. It's time to go home after a long day at work. She stands up, teetering on her high heels from France, grabs her trendy leather coat, and leaves the government office.
It's. . Hard, she thinks. The only countries she talks to regularly are Poland, America, and Belarus, and her conversations with Poland and America consist of catty insults to one another and Belarus. . Well, he's messed up, but Russia can't help but think that anyone with his boss would be messed up. . She can empathize, even if she would rather block out her own memories, the ones that allow for empathy for Belarus.
Russia isn't sure whether she wants to be in the European Union or not, though. One of her bosses tells her she does and her other boss tells her she doesn't, and Russia doesn't know who to listen to or maybe she should listen to the ex-Armiya members and go back to being communist, even if she remembers that being communist hurt and that there was red, bloody red everywhere.
Besides. The EU probably wouldn't want her anyway. They're still afraid of her, she knows, and they're all horribly snotty. Turkey doesn't like talking to Russia but Russia knows how they've been treating her, and even though Russia doesn't care much about what happens to Turkey, she knows that that's probably how they would treat Russia if she tried to join the Union.
She's pulled out of her reverie when she hears shouting. An old, beat up Zaporozhets ran into a Mercedes. There's an old man inside― or was, at least, as now the vory v zakone are violently pulling him out of his vehicle. Nobody interferes. Neither does Russia. She turns and walks away, trying her best to ignore the shouting and screaming.
Money, she reminds herself. It's about the money. By interfering, she's losing money, but inside she knows that no amount of bribes can get rid of the sick feeling in her gut and the pain in her chest.
She finally gets back to her Moscow flat. America is coming to visit soon, and she has to get ready. She can't let that bitch look better than her. They're going to trade catty insults, of course― America will comment on Russia's weight and Russia will comment on America's orange tan― but Russia knows better than to give America more material to work with.
She undresses, stripping even her underwear, and turns on the hair straightener and takes out the makeup box. She knows what she looks like even before she looks in the mirror― Sallow skin, flat hair, bags under her hollow eyes. Russia knows how to hide it, though, how to put on the masque before America arrives.
The stick of concealer coves up all blemishes and the grey surrounding her eyes, and the foundation goes on top of that. Blush to brighten up her complexion and eyeliner to make her eyes look brighter. False eyelashes to make her eyes appear larger and eyeshadow to brighten them up. Gloss on her lips to make them look sweet.
And that's her masque. Her war paint.
Her hair is straightened and sprayed to form volume, and it looks far nicer now. Time for clothes: Sexy lingerie, because for some reason every meeting with America she ends up stripped down to her undergarments, and above that a conservatively cut suit. A peal necklace and diamond earrings. Three-inch high heels, designer of course. Russia puts her hair behind her head into a tight bun, keeping her bangs in front of her face, and forces a smile.
There. Perfect. Like a doll.
Russia leaves the flat and enters the stretch limousine, taking a sip of vodka martini once she slides in. She has to go pick up America from the airport now, and the two can tango.