She was in maligned crepe,

In her eyes sad steppe

When she left the church

And shuddered, I groaned,

But I did not hear her voice

But don’t know her name ...

I. Northerner. Tea-colored eyes and tea roses in his hands, that's all he remembered about her, the girl who was created from the smoky Paris air, cheerful laughter and milk with honey. The plane took him out of the city of love, towards the foggy Neva valleys and the Baltic hills.

- - This package was left for you on the same time - a Stuart sang with a rustling voice, handing him something like a large folder covered with yellow paper. He quickly ripped off the cover, and led her away ...

He left the Imperial Hotel and went off into the night. Paris. After visiting this city, only one thing remains to be done, and probably this is what makes everyone who has been here, precisely on the last night, walk out of the hotel and along dark, curving streets, or avenues flooded with light, almost run after someone's silhouette in the dark. He walked and tried not to think at all, when thoughts recede, then you are cleared. Everything that happens before the eyes begins to resemble a movie, and the farther you go, the faster the shots are shallowed and the longer it takes to continue this race. But there is always a finish, some small detail that brings you back to reality. It may be a smell, a highlight of light on the wall, or a quiet melody that flows from an open window, the main thing is that everyone has something of their own, something that they need at that particular moment. He was stopped by her eyes, tea-colored eyes.

Montmartre is always beautiful, at any time of the year and in any weather, this street always gives the traveler shelter and peace. Despite the crowdedness only here you can feel really alone and at the same time happy. The artist in a dark blue beret, painted her spoil, his works were not too talented, but hers, he painted her like a genius. Probably the perfect can not be distracted ...

They wandered through the city at night and were silent, ignorant of each other, ignorant of even names, and, perhaps, it would be superfluous, because a dream should not have a name. The yellow lanterns haughtily watched them go, indifferently and slightly sadly.

Sitting in a cozy cafe and slowly inhaling cigarette smoke, so thick that it was so difficult to see her face through him, he thought that it was these women Blok had in mind when he wrote about his stranger. Subtle features, white skin and velvety voice, and piercing eyes. The glass in the current hand played the zoo of sunset, casting a highlight on a small silver clock ...

In the hotel room, on the white sheets lying down, the very tenderness, the sweet caramel smell of silky hair is a dope, which binds the mind and fills the body with a strange weight. The bends of the body are hidden by a dense shadow from the covered lamp. Lips touch lips, necks, slowly descend and envelop marble chest with crimson lotus flowers that give life and oblivion. Breathing, breaking on a moan, and lips moving across the stomach, a semicircle of which is the last obstacle to the onset of eternal bliss. And again the lips touch the lips ...

Thick hair covers her face, her hand slips over her thigh, her neck slowly moving up and down.

The body is elastic, like a wild cat before jumping, in anticipation of prey, its moans only increase the desire to incite passion. The tongue snakes around its victim like a snake and puts a final bite ...

He arches and slowly falls to the bed ...

Petals of tea roses break away from flowers and fall on a lace napkin. Movement in a single rhythm, the beating of two hearts, dance filled with charming music of love. Without releasing his hands, she falls asleep prizhashis to him with his fragile body. Her breathing pacifies, and zastovlyaet forget about everything ...

Morning awakenings - shot in the temple. Emptiness. It was a dream ... And only tea roses on the table, judges and witnesses, are silent and showered. The flowers are dying.

Morning city, leaves nothing of a night fairy tale. Noise and bustle fill everything around. I want to close my eyes, and return back to the past, that's just whose past?

The plane slowly lifted off the ground. Now he regretted that she did not know anything about her, and wondered if she would regret it.

Tea-colored eyes and tea roses in his hands, that's all he remembered, about her, the girl Kotra was created from the smoky Parisian air, cheerful laughter and milk with honey. The plane took him out of the city of love, towards the foggy Neva valleys and the Baltic hills.

- - This package was left for you on the same time - a Stuart sang with a rustling voice, handing him something like a large folder covered with yellow paper. He quickly ripped off the cover, and led her eyes away.

They smiled at him. "Paris St. Mari avenue 34—12—2, Lia ”was inscribed with her hand in the lower left corner of the painting.