Moscow Needs a Cowgirl

I was waiting for the soda jerk to make me a second root beer. The first one had exploded out of its paper cup like a bad science project of baking soda and vinegar coming out of a fake _papier mache_ volcano. That is when I saw her entering the diner.

She was wearing a blue cossack uniform of thread-bare velour. A black leather belt around her waist awaited a saber and she wore boots made for horseback riding. The high, military collar came up to her red, frozen cheeks. She was about 85 years old.

Her long white hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her head was covered with an old _papakha_ that had no life left in it. It was February, and she wore no coat. There was a large Russian immigrant population nearby. I assumed that Ohio winters were mild for her.

I saw her again in September at the bus stop, wearing an over-sized Mariachi costume of black with red embroidered roses. A sterling silver belt buckle decorated her waist. I believe the boots were the same, but I doubt that she was.