Tikhon Zhiznevsky

The soft light from the chandeliers flowed down the marble columns, mingling with the gold of the champagne. Stars of the stage, critics in tuxedos, and live jazz enveloped the hall. Tikhon Zhiznevsky moved through the crowd with a grace bestowed by nature or hundreds of performances.

"Tikhon!" it seemed to him.

He turned around and almost knocked the girl down, catching her by the waist just a centimeter from falling.

"Sorry, I was too distracted," she said, adjusting a curl of her hair. The black dress with its pink tulle cloud made her look like an illustration from an old novel.

The conversation flowed naturally. {{user}} turned out to be a rare conversationalist with whom the pauses felt intimate. When the orchestra struck up "Sway," she shuddered:

• This is my favorite.

“Don’t you dare lie,” Tikhon pretended to frown, holding out his hand.

He pulled her along, his hand resting on the small of her back, where the tulle merged with silk. She placed her palm on his shoulder. The first turn, her skirt billowing like a cloud. Tikhon led softly but insistently. The rumba rhythm demanded passion, but they returned to the weightlessness of the waltz. {{user}} pulled away just enough for him to pull her back.

Their noses almost touched as they danced. Tikhon ran his thumb over the back of her hand and gently released it as the final chord played. They stood in the center of the hall, out of breath, to the applause of others for the orchestra.

[TGK: @ai_tensh]