My love

The first time I had, probably, seen him in my dream. Apparently, a very long time ago: maybe in childhood? I don't remember when he really came to us, I was not surprised of that at all. It was going without saying that he would finally appear.

His voice immediately filled the hallway, ringing, flying between the glass balls of chandeliers, and splashed into the kitchen. Brown slim hand with long fingers and narrow wrist, twined with the blue shadows of the door handles, switches and wardrobe rack. He was thin, just a long nose and bottomless windows of eyes were outlined on the face behind the glare glasses. Loose sweater concealed the outlines of the body, too lean and sinewy. Apparently, it slightly confused him - stupid men are somehow so worried about their muscles, not realizing that is just not so important. Of course, everyone chooses for himself, still our family always preferred the aesthetics and grace to muscular strength - and though I'm not a connoisseur of legs’ beauty, but those... How eagerly and easily they moved, they revealed the thinness of the bone and the hidden power, sudden and precise movement allowed to step free and easy even in a hurry, and that's hard to put into words. It seems they live their separate lives, and he could not make them do anything bad or ugly, no matter how hard he would try...

I don't know exactly what heroes look like in legends, princes, prehistoric cats in boots – maybe like this, don’t they? He said Hello and walked down the kitchen (he came to us for something). And I, never looking up, went out of the room thinking that he had hardly heard my quiet response. That evening I had been watching TV in silence, not quite understanding what was on there and absently reacting to the questions of my family. I think they decided then I just got sick. Without knowing it, they were right. And the disease had a name.

Almost a year has passed since that day. He often visits us. His eyes and voice at first almost drove me crazy, and the touches of sinewy and hard (but with such tender fingers!) hand were just creepy. Still he seemed not to take me seriously. On Sundays I was waiting the moment he would break into our huge sleepy apartment, and after greetings with everyone, he would hug me and raise up from the floor, spinning around the room. Happily saying: "Hello, my sweet girl!" and, face nestled to my back of the head, whisper: "my beauty!"... Then, in the kitchen after discussing their business while clearing the table and washing the dishes, sometimes he can go up to my room where I'm alone (the door closed) and sit down with a cup of coffee on the couch next to me. Gently and easily either patting, or just touching my neck (he does that so easy and naturally that there is not a shadow of impropriety against violations of conventions) and just looking at me with his warm green eyes, he could, with a subtle smile, simply ask, "How are you doing, pussy cat?" And I was anxiously waiting for his touch, I was ready to give anything to him, but... But he was saying something else, then finished his coffee and left. Aroma of coffee reminded me of him, I even began drinking coffee, I couldn't stand that stuff though. He came and left again, they talked about something, laughed, rustling with paper. Sometimes I, coming in to the kitchen, saw that he was drinking hot tea, and his wet ash-blonde hair and brilliant blush on the cheekbones showed to me - he had taken a bath. I imagined the streams of water over his smooth bronze skin, the curves of the body, the lather sliding over the stomach and leaving clean skin behind, his clothes on the floor. It terrified me, but something was aching in my chest sweetly exhausting. I was very afraid that they would notice my confusion. Then I, carefully looking to the side, stepping too properly, walked past the table they sat at, trying to think of something abstract.

Often they had long and silently nights in the room, occasionally saying something to each other with muted and strange voices. If I came into the room (I was so afraid to do something wrong and disappoint him!), he glanced at me, smiled, and my heart nearly jumped out of my chest, it was beating at my throat. But I was happy only a few seconds - they obviously waited for me to leave, to continue the conversation. Yes, of course, I’m ashamed, but when he left, I used to think about him, clinging to his shirt left in the bath. And when he was back there, I tried to pretend that he was indifferent to me that I was just having fun with him. And kept on waiting on and on...

Today I’m watching him again, not able to utter those hot and tender words bursting my chest and moistening my eyes. I dream of his love, I'm ready to leave everything and follow him – if only he would call me. And he...he sat down again on the sofa next to me with a cup in the hand, stroking my striped back and scratching behind my ear when I curl up in a ball at his knee. I move slightly, my breathing becomes hoarse and gentle; finally I get warm and cozy and purr with my eyes closed. From softness my legs are shaking a little, exposing sharp claws, he likes so much. He tells me sweet words again, and I don't know exactly - am I sleeping? But still I know something else: he visits my so-called "mistress," to the one that lives with me in this apartment. He loves not me...