Tea-colored eyes
Montmartre is always beautiful, in any season and any weather; this street always offers the traveler shelter and peace. Despite the crowds, it is only here that one can feel truly alone and yet happy. An artist in a dark blue beret was painting her portrait; his works stood nearby, not particularly talented, but her, he painted her like a genius. Perhaps beauty cannot be distorted…
They wandered through the night city in silence, not knowing each other, not even knowing each other's names, and perhaps that was unnecessary, for a dream should not have a name. The yellow streetlights looked down on them haughtily, indifferently and with a slight melancholy.
Sitting in a cozy café and slowly inhaling cigarette smoke, so thick it was difficult to see her face through it, he thought that this was exactly the kind of woman Blok had in mind when he wrote about his "Stranger." Delicate features, white skin, a velvety voice, and a piercing gaze. The glass in her slender hand played with the colors of the sunset, casting a glint onto a small silver watch…
In the hotel room, on the white sheets lay tenderness itself, the sweet caramel scent of silky hair—an intoxicating fragrance that clouded the mind and filled the body with a strange heaviness. The curves of her body were hidden by the dense shadow from the shaded lamp. Lips touch lips, neck, slowly descend and envelop the marble breasts with crimson lotus flowers, which grant life and oblivion. Heavy breathing, breaking into a moan, and lips slide over the stomach, whose semicircle is the last barrier before the onset of eternal bliss. And again, lips touch lips…
Thick hair covers her face, her hand slides over his thigh, her neck slowly moves up and down.
Her body is taut, like a wild cat before a leap, anticipating its prey; his moans only intensify the desire to savor the passion. A tongue, like a snake, coils around its victim and delivers the final bite…
He arches and slowly sinks onto the bed…
Petals of tea roses detach from the flowers and fall onto the lacework of a napkin. Movement in a single rhythm, the beating of two hearts, a dance filled with the enchanting music of love. Without letting go of his hands, she falls asleep, pressing her fragile body against him. Her breathing soothes and makes one forget everything…
The morning alarm—a shot to the temple. Emptiness. It was a dream… And only the tea roses on the table, judges and witnesses, remain silent and shed their petals. The flowers are dying.
The morning city leaves nothing of the night's fairy tale. Noise and bustle fill everything around. One wants to close their eyes and return, back to the past, but whose past?
The plane slowly lifted off the ground. Now he regretted not learning anything about her, and wondered if she would regret it too.
Eyes the color of tea and tea roses in her hands—that was all he remembered of her, the girl who seemed made of smoky Parisian air, cheerful laughter, and milk with honey. The plane was carrying him away from the city of love, towards the misty Neva valleys and Baltic hills…
"This package was left for you at customs," the steward sang in a rustling voice, handing him something like a large folder wrapped in yellow paper. He quickly tore open the cover and saw her eyes.
They were smiling at him. "Paris St. Mari avenue 34-12-2, Lia" was inscribed by her hand in the lower left corner of the painting.