Vlаdimir Makarov

You are drunk. Damn drunk. And Makarov watched you from afar. How you drunkenly accepted the compliments of others, how you smoked one cigarette between two, how you drank from the same glass with someone. He watched and envied. And you drunkenly come towards him, holding out your palm, while the noise of the crowd subsides in the slow lane. "Teach me to dance." Who is he, who is he with? Doesn't matter. Makarov takes your hand and waist and leads you into a slow dance. "As beautiful as a thunderstorm in early May." He says, coldly holding you in a slow dance.