It was an unusually dark and cold February that year, I sat on mother's bed the night before a party, looking at that picture of my grandfather. The snow drowns out most of the background, it looks the way poverty and oppression must feel like.
I guess it was the first time I saw that little hint of fear in his eyes, somehow it inspired me, I told my guests to dress up in fur hats and military clothing, Miri came in a beautiful black velvet jacket with silver buttons and fringed epaulets. We were alone in my room in the dark and she unbuttoned it, underneath she wore a black crystal embroidered balconette bra (Stella McCartney - I asked) and she kissed me.
When she left around 4.30 in the morning she pulled me close and whispered "you taste like revolution" in my ear. It was probably mother's Pinot Noir, but right there and then I was ready to give up men for good.