It was in early autumn, although all signs hinted at the approaching winter. The air was filled with cold sparks, which were rhythmically hitting faces with every blow of the wind, filling all reddened empty spaces with freshness. Everything was electrified with the inevitable change, which was just about to happen. It would extinguish all the fond memories of the past summer, as if it had never even happened and couldn't have happened. Winter was coming into power and had already started giving its orders all over the earth. Elated mood was inevitably disguised by dejection; worry substituted joy. The entire world was plunged into forced sleep, where day replaced day, but was nothing unusual in their sparkling glimmer. Life was covered with mediocrity and spiritual indifference. It seemed as if nothing, even the brightest, most prominent circumstance could alter the settled atmosphere or awaken the voice of nature amidst autumn. But it was not quite like that.
Lighted lanterns gleamed through her window, followed by lights oozing from windows of neighbouring houses. But she feared them, she feared being noticed at that late dark hour. She feared that her inner turmoil would betray her and percolate outside together with her reflection in the window. And because of that her little cold body hid itself in the farthest corner of the room, where she chained herself with his passionate accords. No, he wasn't like other, maybe even more skilled lovers. There was no false sweet pretence, characteristic of men, whose main objective is to possess a woman's body. Such men are distinguished with great patience , worthy of respect. And all of it because they do not tolerate mistakes, don't take chances. Every word sounds like a prayer. Everything breathes with their fear of being neglected, losing in the game, that hasn't been even started yet. Piles of presents, flowers and false declarations are poured on a prey with a perceivable sense of artificiality. The prey is blinded with the usual "you're worth it", is instantly captured and is now at his feet, offering her soul together with her head. Having separated from her soul in hope for love, she is disillusioned to have found the limit of his lies, veiled up as love. Poor silly girls, who once were worshipped as goddesses, are now entrapped by themselves, worshipping their lords out of their deep vengeance and mourning for true love.
But this kind of love wasn't made for her. There was no need to try and waste time on sweet rivers of words. And while she was rejecting others, she couldn't hide from him. They barely if ever talked, and there was hardly any reason for words. It was all in his look, the look that burned through the recesses of her. And then, not stopping to ponder, he would masterfully throw her gown down, rip it into pieces and not giving her a moment to change her mind, lock her wrists in his palms and twine his long pianist fingers like serpents around her bare flesh, vibrating to the sound of his music. Writhing, she was desperately trying to regain her soul back but her soul surrendered to his will fully. Sweet rivers of words were useless. He possessed her and he was very well aware of that. Icy flesh-cutting wind rushed into her room and melted tiny icicles on her burning hot lips. However, not even the wind was able to cool the blasts of passion. He took her again. Over and over. All of her. Completely. He strangled her. He tortured her. He speared her and enjoyed the sight of her tortured flesh in ecstasy. Drowning in his sweat, he was still unsatisfied, and so he'd start it all again, from the very first score. And now exhausted, drowning in her, he was covering her with a veil of his weightless kisses. As the night grew wider and darker, her wounds would gleam with angelic pollen. Excited pulsating blood was filling with the sweet sound of his name. Sergei... Everything dissolved in this name. Silence was hanging over her as a dull curtain. Lanterns were off. The wind died down. The world ceased to exist, all that remained were just decorations, funny pictures...and the aftertaste of his passion.
