There are odd days when I plain love my life.
Rain has steamed onto the city through the day, leaving rivers of mud running through the streets. Now soft breezes push against the nets, jostle the heavy curtains of hot air and set the play of shades dancing.
It feels like we are forgiven. There is no need to wonder what we have done.
I am dressed half indoors half out; local trousers cut wide and baggy then caught in at the ankle and my teeny tiny sleeping vest thrown on because anything else is just way to hot. It feels like a small rebellion when I’m enclosed by a balcony, a little too close to sight.
I am glad to be back in more of my skin and there is a gentle pleasure in easing off the brightness of the day, letting the round moon caress my shoulders and drift on down.
Apparently the outfit makes me look like I might grant some wishes if you rub my lamp. But the moment is full and replete. We have no requests to test the theory.
We sit around a single flickering candle waiting for the power to drift back to this part of the city. The dark is dense like velvet, a sumptuous cloth I want to run my fingers over, to push myself against.
I dangle a water bottle from a languid wrist, letting droplets fall and run a cool touch over me; finding winding paths down my throat, my collar bone, carving hollows between my breasts, mapping my hot skin into contours of hills and valleys.
New arrivals coming in often bring bounty from distant shores and tonight I fine-dined on caviar, felt the little bubbles burst with an explosion of sensation and a tiny splash of an icy faraway sea. Vodka, miraculously cold, was a fire in my mouth, a burn deep inside.
Moscow, we love you. Send more staff.