Their dog was under the table, a coffee table littered with cigarette butts and beer bottles. It was the place everyone kept returning to smoke a cigarette, to pour more wine, to drink more beer, and there were vodka shots she was not allowed, she was not Russian. Her liver was not like theirs. So only three shot glasses on the table for four. Behind the table, the room with the keyboard and Russian songs. The Russian woman was drunk and her singing was more like the howl of a dog. The narrator of this poem, Mary, did not speak Russian. The Russian woman joked, your girlfriend should learn Russian. The Russian boyfriend said she's smart but not that smart. The Russian woman was not articulating her words well and then not at all. Mary knew this. She did not need Russian. The Russian woman danced. She kept dancing as the men did not watch. Her hands close to Mary's face. Her shots were poured smaller by the men, although, like a good Russian drinker, she protested vehemently as expected. Mary's boyfriend said to her request for a change of music: She is listening to the songs of her youth. She needs this. So Mary suffered silently, the dog hid, the woman danced. They poured her small vodkas shots and gave her pot. And still she danced,and danced, close to Mary's face, and occasionally she shrieked for no apparent reason.