She came into my life.

I saw her by chance. Something drew my attention to her. That gait, light and floating yet confident and even somewhat heavy. She was wearing tight jeans, a loose sweater, and boots with thick soles and extremely high heels. "Where do they even find shoes like that in this country?" I managed to think. Our eyes met, and she suddenly stopped. Her facial features were unfamiliar to me and yet painfully recognizable. I lowered my eyes. She stood, legs slightly apart, creating a gap where the central seam curves around the pubic mound and continues down and back. Her wide hips swayed, moving towards me, and I raised my eyes.

—

"Excuse me, do you speak Russian?" she asked.

— "Yes. How did you know?" I replied and immediately caught myself. — "Probably Russians are easy to spot from a distance in your city?" — and I smiled. For some reason, I remembered an incident in a supermarket when I saw a man and was absolutely sure he was Russian. I don't know, probably by his look. Though I didn't check.

— "I thought I knew you," she said and smiled with the corners of her lips. The winter sun shone on her profile, highlighting her slightly sharp but very delicate features. She looked at me directly, with a hint of sadness. For some reason, I really wanted to stroke her hair, which glowed softly in the sunlight.

— "No. But I feel like I'm starting to recognize you," I replied.

— "Why do you think that?"

— "No meeting happens by chance. Especially on the street," I smiled.

— "Are you a fatalist?"

— "To some extent, yes. When it helps me live."

— "Am I bothering you, maybe you're busy?"

– "No, no, I'm actually free right now," I replied, thinking that I still had a full 5 hours before my train. — "Maybe we can switch to informal 'you', if you don't mind?"

— "I don't mind," she replied, adjusting a stray lock.

— "Do you live here?" I asked after we started walking together towards the street with lots of cafes and shops.

— "Yes. And you?"

— "I'm leaving today."

— "When did you arrive?"

— "Last night."

— "Strange."

— "What's strange?"

— "Last night I couldn't settle down. And today, instead of working, I'm wandering the streets, looking at people, at the city..." she squinted, shielding herself from the bright sun. I looked at her walking beside me, inhaling the unfamiliar scent of her perfume, and suddenly thought how strange everything was, as if I had seen it somewhere before.

— "When I saw you, I felt like I've known you for a very long time. Do you understand me?" she continued.

— "That happened to me once," I replied. — "But it was a very long time ago."

— "How old are you?" she asked.

— "32," I replied — "a round number."

— "Why round?" she wondered.

— "Two to the fifth power."

She laughed.

— "My husband is a programmer, he also counts everything in 2, 4, 8, 16. Do you program too?"

— "More like I administer."

— "Teach users?"

— "Teach, with my language? I administer servers. So they don't crash. Shall we go into a cafe?" I asked.

— "With pleasure."

The cafe smelled of coffee and pastries. We sat at a table by the window.

— "May I smoke?" she asked.

— "Of course, smoke," I replied.

— "Do you smoke?"

— "No."

— "For some reason, I thought so right away. That's why I asked," she smiled.

— "What coffee would you like?"

— "Regular. And you?"

— "I don't drink coffee. Tea is better."

Her hand ended up next to mine. I probably wasn't thinking at all about what I was doing, because I began to lightly stroke her hand with my fingertips. Her skin was a matte color; for some reason, I wanted to press my lips against it and inhale her scent. She gently freed her hand, turned it palm up, and we began to lightly stroke each other's palms with our fingertips. I found her other hand with my other hand and squeezed it gently. My eyes closed on their own, and I suddenly began to recognize these curves, this thin skin, the small but strong palm. I wanted to feel her lips with my lips, that hope I had long ago kicked into a corner reappeared...

— "What's wrong with you?" I opened my eyes — "Are you okay?"

— "Yes," I shook my head and discovered that the coffee and tea were already on the table.

She took a cigarette from the pack, then rummaged in her purse for a lighter. A small Zippo, I had never seen one like it before.

— "Did you buy that here?" I asked.

— "No, it's a gift," she smiled.

She opened the lid, struck the wheel, but the lighter wouldn't light. After a few unsuccessful attempts, she put it on the table and looked around.

— "You don't happen to have matches, do you?" she asked.

— "No," I replied and picked up the cold metal case. I imagined it being taken into that small, delicate palm several times a day—sometimes in a hurry, sometimes in irritation, sometimes in joy. Every day, several times, this case feels her warmth, her skin, her fingers. I automatically flipped open the lid and struck the wheel. A small, living flame flickered within the iron fence.

— "Maybe it needs to be warmed up first," I suggested.

— "Thank you," she said and lit her cigarette. Her palms briefly cupped mine in the process.

— "Does the smoke bother you?"

— "No."

She touched her lips to the coffee cup and took a sip.

— "Where are you staying?"

— "Nowhere anymore. I checked out of the hotel this morning."

— "You're leaving today?"

— "In four and a half hours."

She became thoughtful. I watched as a stream of smoke slowly rose from the tip of her cigarette. Who was she, meeting me so unexpectedly in this city? The world was shrinking around me, only her silhouette against the window remained. Could it be? No, it can't be.

— "May I see you off?"

— "Yes, of course." I realized I was no longer capable of simply leaving. I was beginning to recognize. To recognize the person I had been searching for all my life. This voice, the tenderness of her hands, the velvety skin. I had been wrong so many times, mistaking wishful thinking for reality; back in distant Moscow, I had a wife with whom it was always fun and amusing. The only thing that clouded my feelings for her was that I never felt she needed *me*. She always needed something *from* me—tenderness, attention, sex, trips together, discussions. But there was (sexpornotales.cc) a certain emptiness I couldn't fill. I was afraid. I was terribly afraid of making a mistake. The memory of the agonizing pain of leaving women who loved me remained. I couldn't *not* leave. As soon as I realized it wasn't HER, the one I was searching for, I immediately knew I couldn't stop searching. I couldn't lie to their faces (for long), so I left. Who was sitting in front of me now? I didn't even want to think or assume, I didn't want to risk causing pain to something very precious to me...

— "Your tea will get cold."

— "Oh yes, thank you." I took a sip and didn't taste the tea.

She was finishing the last sip of her coffee. When the cup was back on the table, I took her hand in mine and covered it with my other palm. She didn't pull away. With the fingers of her other hand, she began to gently stroke my hand, tracing all its protrusions and curves, as if trying to memorize it forever... The clatter of dishes from behind brought us back to reality.

— "You probably have to go."

I looked at my watch. Two and a half hours left until the train. God, where had the time gone? I got up from the table and leaned down for my bag. Her hair was very close to my face and I inhaled that mixture of perfume, coffee, cigarette smoke, and the scent of her hair. Something switched inside me and I understood I wouldn't be going anywhere today.

— "You know," I said, "I'm not going anywhere today."

— "Why?" she asked, and I sensed relief in her voice.

— "I think you want that."

— "Yes... But what about the ticket?"

— "I don't have a ticket. It's bought right before the trip."

— "I'll buy it tomorrow."

— "What will we do?"

— "Can you stay with me today?"

— "Yes, but only until evening. My husband comes home from work at 9," she smiled guiltily.

— "Then let's go."

We went out onto the street. The sun was already setting, and long shadows fell on the cold asphalt. A cold wind blew. She found my hand with her small palm and trustingly pressed her shoulder against me.

— "You know," she said, "I dreamed of this. With you. I'm crazy, right?"

— "No," I shook my head. Thoughts had evaporated somewhere. There was only the sensation of the warmth of her palm, her shoulder, the light scent of perfume.

— "I feel so calm with you, I've never had that before."

— "What about your husband?" I couldn't help asking.

— "I thought about it for a long time," she replied after a pause. "We met 6 years ago. He was courting my friend, and when she left him, I tried to somehow comfort him, give him strength. And a year later I married him. Then he found a job here, and we moved."

— "How long have you lived here?"

— "Are there many Russians here?"

— "Not many. But 2 years ago, I started having dreams."

— "What dreams?"

— "They were vivid, with some unearthly colors. I was walking on a sandy beach and the surf roared at my feet. I was on city streets, in shops. I was talking to someone, even dancing. And He was always nearby."

— "Who is He?"

— "I don't know, I couldn't remember his face. We were together, we made love, he hugged me, I kissed him. And I felt calm-calm. And good. And when I woke up, I couldn't come to my senses for a long time. And I never told Sasha about it."

— "Sasha is your husband?"

— "Yes. When I saw you," she paused, "I suddenly understood: it's now or never. Like in that dream." She raised her eyes.

— "Did you often have such dreams?" I said, just to say something. Normal perception of the world was beginning to fail.

— "The last time was yesterday."

I looked at her chiseled profile and mentally began to kiss her lips, eyes, eyebrows, the soft down at her temples. And I almost stumbled off the sidewalk, tripping over a huge suitcase.

— "I'm sorry," came from behind.

We stood at the entrance to the hotel I had checked out of that morning.

— "Shall we go?" I asked, nodding towards the entrance.

— "Yes," she replied quietly.

At the hotel, they greeted me like an old acquaintance, immediately gave me a room, and wished me a pleasant stay.

— "Come in," I opened the door to the room, letting her go ahead.

Then I entered myself and locked the door. She put her purse on the table and took out her cigarettes. I looked around for an ashtray and suddenly felt her press her whole body against me, her arms wrap around my neck, and her silky hair come very, very close to my face. I touched her hair with my lips and the last drops of reason left me. All I could do was kiss that hair, those eyes, temples, delicate ears, cheekbones with amazingly tender skin, and lips. I had never encountered anything like it before. I enjoyed kissing them! Before this, it had only happened once, very briefly, with one of my women. As a child, seeing people kiss in movies, I couldn't understand what they found pleasant about it. Then, trying it myself, I didn't feel anything special; it was sometimes even unpleasant. But here I wanted to kiss them more and more; they had a slightly sweet taste or sensation, I couldn't tell. I wanted to drink them like a traveler dying of thirst. I stroked the inside of her lips with my tongue, her little tongue began to tickle mine. Our tongues met, and I pressed her lips even harder against mine. Her hands stroked the back of my head, she clung to me, and I felt her warmth through two sweaters. I picked her up and, without breaking away from her, sat on the bed and placed her on my lap. She gently pulled away, pressed my head to her chest, and began to stroke and kiss my hair. I stroked her thighs and recognized them through the denim. I inhaled her pungent, thick, honey-tinged scent, and a kind of universal calm spread throughout my body.

She slowly freed herself, stood up, and began to take off her sweater. I pulled her to me and began to stroke the inside of her thighs, kissing through her jeans the well-defined mound. I'm crazy about that particular feature of female anatomy, I don't know why. Then I unbuttoned the top button of her jeans and began to kiss the very, very tender skin of her stomach. She had already taken off her top, so I began to move higher and higher. She gently pushed me away and began to take off my sweater, then my T-shirt. I helped her take off her jeans, under which were black silk panties, and stood up to take off my own jeans. She sat on the bed, hugged me around the waist, and began to slowly unbutton them, kissing my stomach and moving lower and lower. Then she pulled down my underwear and began to kiss my tensely erect penis with light touches of her lips. At that point, I couldn't take it anymore, I scooped her up, pulled her with me, and we fell onto the bed. She didn't give me time to recover and immediately ended up on top, kissing my chest, lightly biting my nipples. A sweet languor began to spread through my body. And she gradually moved lower and lower. Now her lips touched my groin and her little tongue began to tickle my anus. I put my hands under her buttocks to make it easier for her and surrendered completely to the sensations. Her little tongue persistently knocked at my opening