Once upon a time a social animal from my Muscovite childhood took me to the Santa Monica’s Promenade to hunt her husband-to-be-in-less-than-one-month.

Roxy had always been looking for “fortune and love” (to be read as “green card and capital”) but, lately, a sudden rush had been driving her search.

The winter was almost over and, by September, she had to accumulate enough “fortune and love” to import her most precious Russian treasure:  her beautiful teenage daughter.

Whoever stated that haste makes waste must have seen us that day. Walking up and down. Down and up. Until we finally run into our goal.

Well, to be true, he run into us. He almost run us over as we were trying to cross at the light on Arizona.
He was staring so hard at the naked girls on Skin & Ink Magazine in the Barnes and Noble display window that his big black Range Rover almost missed our “overdressed” bodies.

But, he did not; as soon as he noticed them, he pressed on the brakes and jumped out offering a basket full of smiles and apologies.

So, here we go. A couple weeks later I’m invited by Roxy and Mr. Big Black Range Rover to celebrate their speedy amorousness at Locanda del Lago, a nice Italian restaurant down the street from our little accident.

I could have said no to the boring groundings of their new relationship, but I could not say no to Italian food.
Plus, Roxy and I had to accomplish the last part of the mission: put enough wine into Mr. Big Black Range Rover and make him follow of our ultimate logic: sex in change of marriage. Da da.

Two hours later, based on his drunken ramblings, at age fifty-six and an indefinite number of marriages and kids he never sees, family is still the main value in his world (as he really didn’t realize much else); so, he got convinced to give it another shot. With Roxy.

Vegas. Married. Three months go by and he starts to disappear every night to reappear in the morning with an always more sophisticated excuse: first business meetings, then business dinners, then business plane crashes.
When there were no more safe airports to take off from or land at in the whole LA County, he went back to the old habit to go work (from Beverly Hills to Santa Monica) with his beloved big black Range Rover.

That’s when, one night, Roxy called him to find out where they were parked – since, as usual, it was already two o’clock and not at home.

Finally, he admitted it: the LA night is so overwhelmingly crowded that somewhere on the road he always needs to stop… just for a regenerating nap in his car.

This is how, day by day, night by night, nap by nap, Mr. Big Black Range Rover has been giving Roxy the chance to collect a Vouitton after another, fly in her beautiful daughter, roll her in the best school, apply for her green card and, of course, start looking around for a lighter love.

After fifty start looking up at God, they taught me in Russia.
Start looking up at God and stop looking down between your legs, I learnt in America.

Story by Irina Svistunova.