A hand, which was hanging down from an armchair, carelessly put a coffee-cup on the floor. The hand didn’t seem elvishly thin or extremely elegant, for it was just an ordinary hand with no special effects like long painted nails, tattoos, old scars left after cutting out the sixth finger, or ring seals with emblems of dead empires. The hand slightly touched the edge of the cup with the fingertips, as if the hand’s possessor wasn’t quite sure if the cup should be left standing on the floor like this, and returned to its place on the armrest.

Quiet sound of the upcoming footsteps gently reminded the world didn’t consist of only that tranquil island of space, including the armchair, its host and the cup on the floor. The footsteps’ sound stopped. Something caused a light rustling noise. Someone chuckled softly.

A person, sitting in the armchair, slowly turned his head to see the cause of the sounds. It was impossible to recognize his facial expression for the misty dawn in the window caused more shadows than light.

— Ah, — said the armchair’s inhabitant, watching the room, drowned in twilight.

The sound of his voice revealed him smiling. There were too many nuances in that single exclamation, such as recognition, and expectation, and sarcasm, and even a bit of pleasure of one’s presence. There was no need to make the greeting phrase any longer than that “ah”.

— Reading, — calmly upcoming from the shadows, said a woman in jeans armour.

There was a jacket in her hands — black, official, as any suit of its kind. She was holding it with two fingers, as if it caused disgust in her. The jacket looked like a hanged man, rather miserable and obviously hopeless.

— Without any alternatives, — softly answered a man in the armchair, closing his book with a quiet rustle.

The woman threw the jacket away and, moving quietly on her bare feet, came closer to sit down on the floor beside the armchair, which suddenly looked like a throne.

— Shakespeare, — sniffed the woman, taking the book in her hands and examining the cover.

The man raised his eyebrow — silently, not needing words to agree to her conclusion or to ignore the critical notes in her voice.

Misty morning was unfolding minute by minute, pouring the light into the room and making more and more details visible — the armchair’s possessor included. Soft light licked the man’s face, dancing on the sarcastic curves of his lips and silver of his temples. The pose he had chosen was a little odd for a person of his age and dressing style: he was sitting in the armchair like a big black cat, with his expensive tie, carelessly hanging from his shoulder.

— Words, words, words, — murmured the woman, laying her head on the armrest. The man sniffed very catlike and turned his head in the way he could watch his guest’s face.

Their eyes’ colour was absolutely the same — mad, light blue, a clear scent of distant sky.

Right at the moment two of them looked like a draft in pastels, painted with blues and shadows. His shirt of deep indigo and her old blue denim clothes just added some shades of colour into the painting imagined. An amateur psychiatrist, if only one took a look at a painting with such colour gamma, would have begun to discuss the painter’s depression degree. A professional, M.D., wouldn’t have judged that easily, for colour gamma’s not the only thing to characterize the painter’s soul condition.

Yet anyway, that doesn’t call off the depression.

The lord of the armchair touched the woman’s hair with that kind of gesture that reveals an old habit. His fingertips softly moved over her face, examining, giving him a clear perception of old scars on her forehead, of the lines of her dark eyebrows, of her once-broken, but still noble-looking nose…

She smiled at him — slowly, angrily, baring her sharp teeth. And asked in a low voice, as if that was a part of password:

— Will you walk out of air, my Lord?

He smiled:
— Into my grave.

— Indeed, that’s out of air… How can you still re-read the play you definitely know by heart?

He moved closer and softly whispered directly in her ear:

— I am but mad north north-west; when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.

— Fool, — concluded the woman with a hopeless smile.

— At you service, love. There is an art to the building up of suspense.

— The latter quote is not Shakespeare’s one.

— Yet close to him, as well, — he grinned.

— Joker.

— Just another side of fool, love.

— Just another shade of your nature, just another damn shade, — quietly said the woman.

— You are not to count the shades of grey, are you? You won’t see them all anyway.

— Don’t you think I want to.

— You did wish you could. As I did wish I knew all your scars.

The silence could be almost felt, like a breath on the skin — gentle, but able to be noticed.

The man in the armchair sighed and changed his pose to the normal one, crumpling his useless tie in his fingers. The woman sat still, without any movement but blinking like an owl, blinded by the sun.

— I never ask where you come from or leave for, — slowly pronounced the man, staring at the tie in his hands. His voice sounded tired to death. — I speak neither of your past, nor of your present, nor of your future. I never try to multiply my knowledge of your private live, love. I even do not know your name, origin, or even your date of birth…

— Neither I know yours, — she interrupted calmly. — Do I need to?

— Suppose you do.

— Why?

— Why what?

— I mean, what for? — She sniffed and raised her head to see his face. — It doesn’t make much sense.

— Never mind, love. I have suddenly experienced craving for making sure I’m not dreaming of you.

— That’s not funny, Mr. Solipsist.

— I’m just anxious about your presence and absence, love.

— Okay, my dear philosopher. Whom do you think you see? — she asked sharply.

He gifted her an absent-minded smile:

— Well… I see a lady.

— Quelle curieuse!

— She is about five feet ten inches high, or so. She prefers sportswear and heavy little cigars that smell like vanilla. She seems to be younger than me.

— Enjoy fooling yourself with the latter thought.

— Mind me saying ‘she seems to be younger than me’. Shall I continue?

— Surely.

— She has dark hair, cold blue eyes and an amount of scars I’m disable to count exactly. She cites Shakespeare, Wilde, Byron, Beckett and Baudelaire without any complications in remembering the quotes. She can notice differences in taste of two similar kinds of coffee. She moves like a beast and comes at twilight. Have I mentioned most of your characteristic features?

— I love the game, — she said after few moments of silence.

— I beg you pardon?..

— And the person you’ve described, either.

— So do I, to be frank, — he smiled softly.

— Mind I didn’t say the person’s me.

— Mind I meant you anyway.

— Mind I don’t mind that.

— Honestly?

— Surely.

— Ah.

— You mean ‘Ah, I see’ or ‘Ah, that’s expected’?

— I mean ‘Ah’.

— Ah, — she chuckled. — So…am I to describe whom do I see, in return to your couple of compliments?

— Complement is a lie, originally. — He threw his tie away and sighed deeply. — I wasn’t lying. And I do not ask for anything in return for my truth, love.

The woman gave him a blank look, biting her lips in total silence.

— You do not ask for anything, — she said slowly, pronouncing word by word, — but you need something. Do you?

— I didn’t say that.

— Yet you meant.

— Who knows, love? You can never say exactly.

— Yet I’ve just said.

There was no answer, but him standing up from the armchair and coming up to the window. The mist outside was slowly turning to liquid golden dew under the rays of burning sunrise. The light travelled upon the face of the man, sparkling gently in his thoughtful eyes.

The woman quietly picked up the forgotten cup from the floor and joined the man near the window.

— Want a smoke? — He asked softly.

—  I’d love to.

They looked very strange, standing side by side like this, drowning in the precious smoothness of morning light. He, silent and a little sad in his business suit that smelled like old fine ‘café au lait’. She, smoking idly and a little bit nervously, elegant with all her dirty jeans, bare feet and wild look.

Twilight was dying slowly, like if the sun was killing its grey magic, as the tired clown does, when hiding his real misery under the bright makeup.

— I’m not your dream. Or anyone else’s one, — suddenly whispered the woman. The little cigar in her hand was slightly trembling as she spoke. — If I am a dream, I am my own one. I know you didn’t say you own me, but… I am mine. I am free to come, free to go, free to be… I am… I am just… I am, aren’t I?

Soft ashes from her cigar were slowly floating down, snow-white and fragile, as real snowflakes, if they only were that hot.

— Don’t think about it, love.

— But…

— Just be. I know you can, for you do this perfectly.

— You think so?

— I just know.

There was no sound but gentle talks of crickets outside and agony whispers of burning cigar.

— Fine, — the woman said calmly, watching the sunrise waking the world up. — I guess I can cope with the task.

— Good girl, — he smirked.

— Hopeless idiot, — she sighed.

— I should have murdered you for you know the truth, love.

— Have I already said you’re joker? — She snorted, watching his misty eyes.

— Envy not joker.

His voice was so soft and quiet, that it could hardly be heard.

— Your mask is much more likeable when it’s not grinning, — sneered the woman and threw her cigar away. — Another twilight time’s gone, my dear philosopher. I must finish my mission and leave until evening comes.

The man nodded with understanding in his face.

— Okay, — he sighed. — Then just do it — and leave me praying for the next twilight hour.

She slightly touched his chin with her fingertips and pronounced slowly, like the most magical kind of spell, just two words:

— Good morning.

— Good morning, love, — he whispered in return, closing his eyes.

There was nobody, but him, standing alone in the silent room. His guest vanished in the golden sunrise, gently, unnoticed, as if she never had existed. Another old fine strange morning was painting the clouds with vivid colours of the dawning palette.

The man was not eager to open his eyes. He had just begun to taste his smile, feeling himself alive because of the single delicious thought he kept in his mind.

She would come to say ‘good evening’. Surely. Punctually. Precisely. Exactly at the next twilight time.

He opened his eyes and started waiting.

© citywatch, 2004-2008.