Natasha Passing

Hugo watched Natasha staring into the fire, watching hard, trying not to miss the slightest change in the way the light reflected from her eyes, her face, her body.  He wanted to hold her image in his mind, hoping it wouldn't break, splinter, dissolve, like just another memory lost in the fog of past events, things to be forgotten.  Soon, he knew it would end, like the ripples of light dancing off the edges of her green velvet dress, but for now the vision was his, the silence, hers. 

Natasha sighed, brushing her blonde hair back, her nails glittering as she did so, and sat up.  "That's it then," she said.  Hugo's vision was lost, her image fragmenting into motion before his eyes.  He said nothing.  "I'll be going," said Natasha, her emerald eyes beaming an unspoken question to him, which, like Pandora's box, he knew should never be opened.  With that, she stood up, her face vanishing into the heavens, leaving him with a glimpse of her bare pink legs before she turned and walked towards the door. 

"I'll call," he said to the air, unable to turn around to see if she had heard, afraid that she would or wouldn't answer. 

"Miracles happen," were her words, leaving him with the burden of interpretation, motion, decision.  His to make alone, as the door had clicked shut as he had thought these thoughts, had the chance to close the distance between them.  Had the chance and let it pass, whilst the discreet click of its passing multiplied itself in the silence, becoming an infinite roaring in his mind.  He had the image of Natasha and nothing more to keep him through the cold and silent night. 

Sighing, he packed away his oils and turned the easel to the wall.  Tomorrow would be a better day.

1998