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19:25 Bianca:Please don’t. Lol. I’ll try adding more flour. Anything new there?
19:26 Nina:Roman just came from Sergei’s place. He said that the house looks like a hurricane went through it. Sergei smashed everything.
19:27 Bianca:Why? I never met the guy, but from what I heard from Mikhail, he’s a little ... unhinged.
19:29 Nina:That’s an understatement of the century, dear. Looks like the girl he had at his place disappeared and he went ballistic. Want to come over?
I’m just typing my answer when I feel a light touch at the base of my neck, followed by a kiss.
“Dusha moya...”
I smile and start to turn around, but Mikhail winds his arm around my waist and keeps my back pressed to his chest. He nuzzles my neck as his right hand comes to rest on the countertop in front of me, holding a single yellow rose. All the breath leaves my lungs as I stare at the delicate flower, its stem wrapped in a wide yellow silk ribbon embroidered with gold.
“I never told you,” he whispers in my ear, “ That I was always your biggest fan. I still am.”
“Mikhail?” I utter, my eyes still focused on the flower.
“There was this poster I saw one evening—I think it was in some shop window—almost a year ago. I remember walking past it, and then retracing my steps to take a better look at the image. It showed a group of dancers. All except one were wearing yellow costumes, and as I regarded them, I wondered why, among all of them, the one dancer who wore a black outfit shined brighter than the rest.” A kiss lands at the side of my neck. “Like a sun.”
He turns me to face him then, cups my face with his hand, and places a soft kiss on my lips. “I never missed any of your shows after that. I love you, my little sun. Mysolnyshko.”
I wind my arms around his waist and bury my face in his chest. “I love you, too ... my Mikhail.”
