Olga sits in the empty corner of Club Presnensky, yelling over the noise at her friend, also named Olga.
Thees place is like Russian Studio 54. Mirrors and blow and Moscow, thirty years later. Do you get that? No? Sorry, I always making up bad, complicated analogies. My babushka, she always say, “Olga, you make horrible conversation. Go chase the chickens and leave me alone.” And so I go and chase chickens instead. Babushka… what a bitch. God bless her.
Olga 1 and Olga 2 take swigs of lukewarm vodka. Club Presnensky does not believe in ice cubes.
I like your outfit. Oh, you like mine? Yeah, Vladimir told me the theme tonight was basketball, and I say, “Vladimir, what the hell is disco basketball? Short shorts? Nikes? Olga wears none of those things, Vlad.” And he says, “I don’t know. You’re creative. Get creative.”
Creative? Who ever said I was creative? I can barely fingerpaint. I failed art history. And I say, “Vladimir, you got me all wrong, baby. I use your money and I buy expensive things with it. I pay someone else to be creative so I have time to spend your money. You get it?”
Vladimir doesn’t get it. But he still let me keep his credit card. It is one of those black ones with the silver letters. It reads “MRS VLADAMIR.” We’re not even married! Maybe it’s his ex-wife’s. I think he killed her. Who knows.
Olga 2 gets really uncomfortable at the mention of this, being that she has known Vladimir for much longer than his girlfriend, Olga 1, has been dating him, and Olga 2 knows that Vladimir certainly murdered the real Mrs. Vladimir. Olga 2 takes a full gulp of her lukewarm vodka and contemplates finding a new group of friends who are not so rich and not so tied to the Russian mafia. Olga 1 continues…
And so I wear this. Sporty, no? My necklaces even shaped like basketballs. Flat basketballs. You see? No? Okay, I stop talking.
[All conversations are imaginary and in no way a reflection of the brand, model, or photographer involved in the actual shoot. Photo courtesy of Prada.]