Romance

I’d been waiting for some fifteen minutes, backed on the massive bronze Empress’ Gates. I was starting to think it was another one of Mark’s stupid jokes. He’d awaken me at 6 am and literally wrested my dosed self from within the blanket’s coziness with his unusual enthusiasm. Man, I got you the best story ever! he’d uttered in between frantic shouts. I stuffed my hands deeper into the overcoat’s pockets, slightly intimidated by the prickling November breeze and bumped over a crumpled cigarettes pack. Got one of the infamous whitish sticks out and tried to peek at the gloomy world around me with my expert wannabe detective eyes.

A discreet scent of a blackberry and azalea cocktail seized my attention, a spicy drop of menthol or maybe just my psychic going frozen by the sudden alluring appearance. She hadn’t been there a blink ago, I couldn’t have missed the long black coat and the slim silhouette underneath its warmth.
“Ah, the pungent bitterness of vice piercing through the morning chill! I am Sophia.”
The lady was a story herself and I felt like bowing as she gave me her delicate porcelain hand. Smitten by her beauty, I brought it closer to my lips, unsure whether to kiss or shake.
“Walk with me.”
She leaned herself on to my elbow and permanently engraved into my brains the notion of gentleman. One could only desperately wish to be a gentleman to Lady Sophia. For a few shameful seconds, before respect rooted its sinuous claws, I thought about how would have she looked like, maybe a decade ago, wrapped inside her lover’s arms. How would this intrigue of a woman have sighed at her man’s touch and how would she have cuddled next to him at night, fearlessly breathing her dreams.

“I’ve played the writing game myself, Mr. Williams. And it took me a while to come to the final resolution of having my own life story written by someone else. I believe my emotions would come too much in the way of words, you see…” She sighed and slowed her pace. I could feel her light weight decently resting on my arm for support. Lady Sophia knew, of course, that no one could write her story better than her own self, she was far too intelligent of a lady to ignore that, but as I’ve learned in time, the pain of relieving her past by remembering it was excruciating enough to not wish its intensity doubled by the effort of nicely phrasing it for the audience.

That first day, though, her presence made me feel like a foolish teenager. I was about to give her a brief lecture on how it’s always better to write about things you know best, as if to impress her with my knowledge, but she shushed me even before I mangled all my thoughts in one piece. She literally shushed me. Her gloved finger caught my words mid air and I stood bemused on the cold path, this fascinating woman shooting devastating flames with her eyes the color of mad wind. Obviously, she’d read all my books – all memorable two of them – and most of my articles. Lady Sophia had chosen her author.