05-01-2023, 01:22 AM
Night chased away the responsibility of tomorrow. The work was a distraction from feelings left to slumber else the fates may fear the stirring of what should remain undisturbed. The soft pad of footfalls lifted the focus of Nikolai’s expression. Noémi’s procession in the dim light cast rays of softness about her curves. She had donned the shirt he wore that day. It swallowed her frame and something about the open lay of the collar and tease of skin at the hip stole most of his breath. The push of her fingers across his scalp captured the rest.
At her bidding, he leaned away from the desk, twisting the very device on which he worked to face her. There was nothing in view she would not be allowed to glimpse. While drew near enough to enter commands, he wondered at the meaning of the phrase that rolled from her lips.
“I have a confession, Noémi,” he began. Undoubtedly the prelude would steal a glimpse from her, but when she looked, she would find his expression shadowed with rare playfulness. “I don’t speak any French at all. I memorized a few lines just in case the opportunity presented itself. I suppose I owe myself a hundred dollars. There are fines for non-English conversation within the Kremlin.” The admission painted his lips with a morbid mirth that was truly never seen by another soul. He didn't really care about English or non-English, but the rule was a device. He was ultimately a foreigner that occupied the Russian presidential seat thirty years before. Assimilation was necessary, the strategy of it was his though.
"What do you want to show me?" he asked.
At her bidding, he leaned away from the desk, twisting the very device on which he worked to face her. There was nothing in view she would not be allowed to glimpse. While drew near enough to enter commands, he wondered at the meaning of the phrase that rolled from her lips.
“I have a confession, Noémi,” he began. Undoubtedly the prelude would steal a glimpse from her, but when she looked, she would find his expression shadowed with rare playfulness. “I don’t speak any French at all. I memorized a few lines just in case the opportunity presented itself. I suppose I owe myself a hundred dollars. There are fines for non-English conversation within the Kremlin.” The admission painted his lips with a morbid mirth that was truly never seen by another soul. He didn't really care about English or non-English, but the rule was a device. He was ultimately a foreigner that occupied the Russian presidential seat thirty years before. Assimilation was necessary, the strategy of it was his though.
"What do you want to show me?" he asked.