I get asked a fair bit if I had to do it all again (Kylie chorus anyone?), would I?

I was on my first Gaydar catch up last night since, hmmm – it’s been ages. As we sat chatting curiously in the city, we exchanged stories about previous loves and lives. We moved to dinner and the topic turned to Moscow.
Keep with me, I’ll make a good point in a moment.

So, this chap had been deeply in love with a partner for six years and they had invited a third to join in the fun. Nothing unusual to write home to Babushka about, until that is, said chap finds himself on a plane to the Ruski’s apartment for a month.

Chasing an elusive feeling that was fleeting. It’s like the best parts of a song that is faded out just as you are getting into it, you replay it, but you need to go through the verses again before the chorus. It just doesn’t have the same feel the second time around.

Returning home, he was able to rejoin the sanctuary of his previous love, adding a further six years to their story of togetherness. Lucky for him.

Did Moscow in the northern summer of early sunrises and late sunsets, music, vodka and sex, form him as a person?
I asked him last night in a twilight lit streetscape of trees, balmy summer breeze and red wine as people walked by us.
The answer is as obvious as the nose on my face, for both of us, from kids to the Red Square.

As we parted on the road, we leaned in, kissed and hugged briefly. We smiled. I turned around and started up the hill, home. Tomorrow I see my sons again, I smile again at the images of their faces in my head. Tonight he will dream of Moscow, smiling again at the memories he has of the face he once kissed.

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