you're too young & eager to love

I just had this horrible experience with a pregnant spider outside my door. It was horrifying in every way possible. But besides that, here's a little bit of old-timey Katerina and Cassius. In my mind, she's been modified and upgraded from her previous state and, while I still need to work out new details since her lady-love is no longer in the picture, I think this faired okay enough.

Things to note: this is intended to be before Cassius leaves her and finds her in the arms of some woman. It is, however, supposed to hint on that occurring in the future. I kept it with Cassius sort of already being her patron, mildly informally now, though he (if memory serves) is certainly that role later on. Also, russians use animals as terms of endearments (zaichik means hare and is actually relatively common for affectionate nicknames). Lyubimy means beloved. Lastly, I can't remember where this was supposed to take place. I knew it wasn't Russia, that Katerina came from there, and I didn't think it was Europe ... but then America didn't sound right either. Still, I just stuck them in some nondescript place there. I also assumed Cassius was American then too.

--



The tea is strong, sweetened with black cherries. Your fingers taste like the fruit, stained from where you plucked them from the container, impatient and uncaring. There are wild mushrooms and succulent lamb dumplings. Well-chilled vodka that you follow with marinated herring and imported caviar. Pickled cucumbers and salo, the Russian bacon you love, ate raw. This is an offering - the foods of your homeland spread neatly.
His American tongue, you find, savors such delicacies.



“You smell like winter.” He says this with his mouth to your skin, his eyes dark. You want to paint him like this, the almost lazy, indulgent way he drapes his arm across your sharp hips. How his hair falls close to your thigh. There is nothing about him that demands you, but he seems to be weighing and valuing the experience. It shows in the quick, clear cut of his gaze. How he is not afraid to let his hand dip between your legs, his fingers stretching you and playing you as though you were the keys of a harpsichord.



His family disapproves.
Your family is buried in Russian soil.

You do not require his wealth but his reputation. An opening to this world of dreary colored skies and iceless grounds. The women here are simple – they use the same vocabulary to discuss politics as they do to discuss fashion. They know nothing of art, and the blunt way you have of speaking simple observational truths unsettles them. You could unlace each corset string and they would still be unable to breath in your company.
The men find you beautiful but it is a beauty unsuited for this culture. You are, at once, too simple and too elaborate. The drastic cut of your dresses, the way you go barefoot and unaccompanied across the lawn, the company you keep and the hours you favor.
“The problem,” he says, kicking his feet up on the table like a commoner, “is that you do not understand silence. Not in the way they would have you understand it.”
You open the pearl buttons of your gown. “So, teach me this silence.”
And he does.



“Zaichik.” You call him, humming it into his ear. Down the center of his spine when he is trapped inside your linens. You spell it on his skin, tracing the letters elegantly, till he is bristled and quick. Till the backs of his shoulders reveal your foreign thoughts.
But you infuriate him as much as you bewitch him. You sleep late into the day and complain when he arrives, unannounced, seeking your attention. “If this were Russia, I would tell my servants to lock the doors. Leave you in the snow to freeze.” You never clean, and you distrust your staff so that, for days, plates clutter your rooms. Glasses of wine stained burgundy. Cigarettes burn the carpet. You throw whatever your hands can find at him. Once, you almost succeeded in tearing his eyes out (though he tells the story differently).
In a year, you are engaged.
The ring is heavy and cold. “To remind you of my family’s disapproval.” He says. Naturally, it is a perfect choice.



There is a book of poetry on the parlor floor. His feet knock into it. The pages are worn, but he recognizes the words from all the early morning dawns where you sat and read them aloud. You in your snow-skin and a massive fur wrapped halfway around your body, as intimate as he had ever seen you. Never cold but always seeking the shelter of animals.
You are less intimate when he looks up but the air in the room is the same. Louisiana humidity and reckless emotions. It crawls down his neck, slickening the collar of his shirt, making him feel foolish. It’s the uneven pallor of your skin, the awkward fall of your dress, how your eyes stare too directly into his. The servant, a pretty fresh thing with auburn hair, stands too close to your chair and does not raise her eyes from the floor. He feels like a stranger, suddenly, but he places the book on the table as though he knows every inch of this room. Every shadow and every deceit.



“Lyubimy.” You whisper, cream-sweet and the crush of your body beside him.
But he will not hear you.