N and I went to see our accountant yesterday. The encounter looked like a joke about a Ukrainian and a Russian who walked into a bar. N tortured that poor woman for 1,5 hours, and in the end we didn’t manage to file taxes.
The conversation went as follows.
“What’s your income for X?”
Long pause. “How do you define income?”
“Well, income is the money that you received. How much income for X did you get this year?”
Long pause. “I have a question.” Long pause. A long convoluted question is then delivered.
The accountant answers the question. “Now. What is your income for X that you received this year?”
Long pause. “What exactly do you mean by received and by this year?”
At the end of the meeting, I leaned over to the accountant and said, “Do you see the cultural differences between Ukraine and Russia now?” “Oh, I do,” she said. “I really do.” I’m guessing she’s now looking for places to donate to Ukraine. Or a place that accepts refugees from Russian aggression before she has to meet us again next week.
At the beginning of our relationship, this took a whole learning curve for me to adapt.
“Do you love me?” I’d ask during a romantic moment.
A very long pause would follow until finally he’d ask, “Can you define love?”
P.S. Everybody I tell this story begins to worry about N’s life, so I want to clarify: I find all of this extremely endearing. I’m in love with the guy. He can’t sneeze without me going into raptures.