I Like My Women Strong
I like my women strong.
The strongest I ever knew was named Anastasiya. When I was a boy, she lived down the street from me in a tiny green house.
She couldn't walk. They said it was because of polio.
The other children laughed at her, said she was nothing. They left her behind when they went to the abandoned lot to play games.
She never cried.
She never even looked like she heard them.
She just smiled and kept on reading. She was always reading. Sometimes I brought her books from my father's library. She never asked me to read to her, but I knew she liked it, so I read to her for hours.
She could have looked at me, and I would have gotten the moon for her.
I said she never cried, but one day, when the sun was high in the sky and I was twelve years old— drunk on summer and life and the feeling that happiness was forever, she took the book out of my hands.
"Ilya, why are you here?"
I blinked at her. I hadn't thought about it. It was just what I did.
"I like coming here." I said, "and I like you."
She cried then, just that once. She never cried when the children were mean to her; she cried because I was kind.
I wanted to hold her, but I was twelve, and shy, and I didn't know then that girls are just people made of flesh, like I am. So I gave her the edge of my shirt to wipe her eyes on instead. They were light gray.
I never held her. She died that autumn. They said it was something to do with her disease. I didn't understand the reason then, and I don't remember it now.
All I remember is the feeling of her absence. When you lose something light and weak, you don't feel the loss that much, but losing her was like losing the weight that kept me anchored to the earth.
I haven't thought of this for a long time, but I guess I'm remembering it now because I held a woman tonight.
I didn't mean to.
She fell asleep on me, and there was nothing to do but to take her in my arms and tuck her into bed.
She held my hand, and she wouldn't let go.
I do not know anything about her, but I know that she is strong.
She is not strong because she wrestled with me or slapped me or told me where to get off. Those are silly things.
She—she danced tonight. Behind me, while I was trying to think. I turned and saw her, with her pajamas and her sunglasses.
She was happy. The chop shop girl knows how to be happy. That's why she's strong.
Anastasiya knew how to be happy—with her books and her smiles and her Illya. That's the truth of it, I guess. She wasn't mine; I was hers. It was more than enough to be part of what made her happy, part of her strength.
My borrowed woman made me dance tonight. She took my hands, and she made me sway to music. And she smiled. I made her smile. I was part of her happiness, part of her strength.
That's why, when the chop shop girl fell asleep, I held her. It's been a long time now since I've known that women are just people made of flesh like I am, and I never make the same mistake twice.
There are men who like easy women or weak women or docile women.
But I like my women strong, and I like to be part of their strength.