06-23-2023, 03:54 PM
Her gaze drew up in surprise at his words. The heart beat deep in her chest, but the sight beheld washed clean that first note of uncertainty into quite something else. Maybe it was only night’s shadows that offered the intimacy; a dream indeed. But a playful light matched in Noémi’s reaction as her fingers momentarily stilled on the device he had handed her. A rare smile blossomed into genuine laughter. “And that is the line you chose to memorise, Nikolai? I am scandalised.”
By the silky sound of her voice, she was anything but. Or maybe she was just remembering the stir of his breath at her ear as he commanded her mother tongue. She had intended to pull him to stand; lead them somewhere more comfortable to sit in the vast sanctuary of his rooms. Instead she chose to perch intimately in his lap, at ease in the moment and the company. “Donne-moi à nouveau mon péché*,” she murmured into his ear, fingers lingering at the back of his neck. The sultry tone did not need translation, nor the tease of her smile against his cheek. “I do not think I will mind being in your debt.”
In answer to his question, she returned the device to his hand. It was not consolation she offered, or even comfort. Noémi’s life had been too harsh for such solace, and it would be an empty distraction, even if it was what he had been seeking when he stole from the bed they had shared. She did not think it was regret now that drove him to distance; not with the way he looked at her. A pause lingered before she added, “I wish to know you, Nikolai. And wish you to know me too.”
The gallery of photographs she shared, taken with her own hand, had never been seen by another soul. There had never been another she wished to share them with. In them was her maman, from the days when one would never have known she was ill, through to the worst as her body slowly failed. The collection was artistic, raw and bittersweet, interspersed with lines of poetry in French; memories happy and hard, and both cherished. Noémi herself featured in some, a teenager then. Though she peered quietly down at the screen, she allowed Nikolai to traverse them at his will; this peek into the layers of her soul. A melancholy glimpse, to be sure. But there were no shallow waters to Noémi.
“Before her diagnosis I had never contemplated a time she would not be here. It is easier to grieve a person before they are gone; to guard against the pain we know will come by pushing away. We spend our lives hiding from that truth, no? That everything ends. And always before we are ready.” Her voice was soft, and if sorrow touched it was the sort that made room for the hurt and accepted its place. She did not seek pity. Nor even understanding. He had lost his own father as a boy, she knew. But the images were not about grief, or loss, or even death, though all those things were there. They were about love, and connection, and living. Noémi had never regretted the time she had spent, or the sacrifices she had made, for the time carved in those few years at her mother’s side.
“‘We must hold tightly to the good things while we have them,’ that is what she told me once.” Noémi’s touch still traced the back of his neck. The heat of skin seeped through the shirt between them. It was Nikolai she watched then, but not for his reaction. She did not mind if he said nothing. Death was something most recoiled from, and if her heart sang a tune of familiarity, they were truly of brief acquaintance. The walls around him were fortress thick. But she would wait an eternity, and longer, for his trust.
“I am curious to know what happened to your arm, to scar you so. But I will not ask tonight, Nikolai.” Another night together was clearly implied, but she did not require a promise; rather, she wanted to impart her own desire, her own want, for more than a solitary passion enthroned to immortal memory. For now she reached to trace the line of his jaw, and spoke soft. “Will you come back to bed?”
—------------------------------------
*Give me my sin again
By the silky sound of her voice, she was anything but. Or maybe she was just remembering the stir of his breath at her ear as he commanded her mother tongue. She had intended to pull him to stand; lead them somewhere more comfortable to sit in the vast sanctuary of his rooms. Instead she chose to perch intimately in his lap, at ease in the moment and the company. “Donne-moi à nouveau mon péché*,” she murmured into his ear, fingers lingering at the back of his neck. The sultry tone did not need translation, nor the tease of her smile against his cheek. “I do not think I will mind being in your debt.”
In answer to his question, she returned the device to his hand. It was not consolation she offered, or even comfort. Noémi’s life had been too harsh for such solace, and it would be an empty distraction, even if it was what he had been seeking when he stole from the bed they had shared. She did not think it was regret now that drove him to distance; not with the way he looked at her. A pause lingered before she added, “I wish to know you, Nikolai. And wish you to know me too.”
The gallery of photographs she shared, taken with her own hand, had never been seen by another soul. There had never been another she wished to share them with. In them was her maman, from the days when one would never have known she was ill, through to the worst as her body slowly failed. The collection was artistic, raw and bittersweet, interspersed with lines of poetry in French; memories happy and hard, and both cherished. Noémi herself featured in some, a teenager then. Though she peered quietly down at the screen, she allowed Nikolai to traverse them at his will; this peek into the layers of her soul. A melancholy glimpse, to be sure. But there were no shallow waters to Noémi.
“Before her diagnosis I had never contemplated a time she would not be here. It is easier to grieve a person before they are gone; to guard against the pain we know will come by pushing away. We spend our lives hiding from that truth, no? That everything ends. And always before we are ready.” Her voice was soft, and if sorrow touched it was the sort that made room for the hurt and accepted its place. She did not seek pity. Nor even understanding. He had lost his own father as a boy, she knew. But the images were not about grief, or loss, or even death, though all those things were there. They were about love, and connection, and living. Noémi had never regretted the time she had spent, or the sacrifices she had made, for the time carved in those few years at her mother’s side.
“‘We must hold tightly to the good things while we have them,’ that is what she told me once.” Noémi’s touch still traced the back of his neck. The heat of skin seeped through the shirt between them. It was Nikolai she watched then, but not for his reaction. She did not mind if he said nothing. Death was something most recoiled from, and if her heart sang a tune of familiarity, they were truly of brief acquaintance. The walls around him were fortress thick. But she would wait an eternity, and longer, for his trust.
“I am curious to know what happened to your arm, to scar you so. But I will not ask tonight, Nikolai.” Another night together was clearly implied, but she did not require a promise; rather, she wanted to impart her own desire, her own want, for more than a solitary passion enthroned to immortal memory. For now she reached to trace the line of his jaw, and spoke soft. “Will you come back to bed?”
—------------------------------------
*Give me my sin again
![[Image: bannernoemimenthe.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bannernoemimenthe.jpg)