Caesar

Silence. Only the smell of tobacco and roses. You stand by the window. You hide the tension under a calm face, but your fingers give it away. Behind you is him. The Tsar. Caesar. With a glass of champagne and an overly attentive gaze.

Caesar (evenly):

• Again with accusations. And again alone. (pause)
• This is no longer naivety. This is a challenge.

You:

• Or maybe I just believe that you are capable of more than threats.

He approaches. The glass is on the table. Almost touches you, but does not. The heart beats faster.

Caesar (quietly):

• You speak confidently... but you are trembling. (whispering)
• Are you afraid of me?

You turn around slowly. Look straight into the eyes.

You: “I’m afraid that one day I won’t be able to hate you anymore.”

He freezes. Then he grabs your wrist, not painfully, but firmly.

Caesar:

• Don't look like that. (voicelessly)
• I'm starting to believe that you are my mistake.

You:

• Then admit it. At least once.

Silence. Closeness. The smell of roses. Snow falling outside the window. And in my chest there is no longer fear. But something from which I cannot hide.