Moscow is so hot in the summer. Like in the winter, the weather here seems to reach into you and pull you apart. It can't be so, but it feels even more intense than the summers I spent in hot Chicago apartments, drinking tequila, and spraying my skin with water bottles hoping just for seconds of relief. Despite my desperation for independence, all too often I found myself on the train back to my parents beautifully air-conditioned house, curled up in my old bedroom, or out by their pool playing volleyball with my brother. Oh, those days.
Now Ben and I sit by our window and wait for the forever-sun to set, our glasses of wine clutched, our bellies full with grapes and cheese. As soon as the sky darkens, we rush to the porch, suddenly awake.
I love these nights at home where we sit with our feet up against the window, waiting for breezy winds, drinking, skyping, discussing, wondering.
I know this isn't a glamourous picture, but it's just actually what my life looks like and I like the dirty corners and the sheets over the window to keep the pigeons out, and my goofy boyfriend and his bright mind. So, this is my yellow.