It was a warm day and why he'd worn his black turtleneck was beyond him. He could have worn a black T-shirt and been more comfortable on this the first day of summer.
And now here he was stuck sitting on the curb, waiting while his partner was dallying with a woman, and not just any woman. Angelique. The thought of her made his blood pressure rise, not to mention his body temperature.
Illya took a deep calming breath as he waited like he had so many times before for Napoleon. He thought he'd become accustomed to these liaisons by now but apparently not and supposed the fact that it was with Angelique that made him more impatient than usual. He was brooding over it and needed to stop.
The street was strangely clear of cars as well as foot traffic and Illya wondered if that was a good or bad thing. The only sound he could hear was that of a lone bricklayer across the street, tapping away as he repaired a damaged wall. Tap, tap, tap...
He guessed that everyone else was off enjoying themselves on as it was the weekend as well as the start of summer. He had to admit, it was peaceful at the moment and hoped it would stay that way for once, but reminded himself to remain vigilant for any of Angelique's cronies.
How Napoleon was able to go to bed with this woman was beyond him, especially since at the snap of a finger, she could kill him.
In spite of his wariness, Illya closed his eyes, letting his mind wander to such a warm day back in Kyiv when he was little, before the war. Papa was trying to work on the stone wall behind the dacha, but it never seemed to get it finished.
Nicholaí Alexaevich Kuryakin would work one stone at a time, chipping and chiseling until it would fit just right. He stopped momentarily, smiling as he looked up at his little blond son who was on the other side of the wall.
Illya listened to the tap tap tap of his father's hammer as he lifted his head up to the sky, feeling the warmth of the sun shine down upon him. He was sitting in the open field that skirted the edge of the woods, running his hand lazily along the tops of the grass and weeds. It tickled just a little, but then he felt something else. He opened one eye, and to his delight he spotted a butterfly. It had landed on his arm and just sat there moving its diaphanous white and black wings ever so slowly.
"Privet, malenʹkaya babochka_hello little butterfly." he smiled, slipping his finger under it, lifting it carefully from his sleeve to take a curious look, then letting it move to a leaf. A moment later it fluttered away into the field.
.
Hey, sleeping on the job?" Illya was startled by the voice of his partner.
"Ugh, no just resting my eyes," he lied, straightening himself up.
"Say, looks like you have a visitor." Napoleon said pointing to a butterfly sitting on his partner's arm.
Illya looked carefully at the gossamer insect; it was if his daydream had come to life. Suddenly feeling inspired; he began to whisper a poem composed by Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet, late known as Shenshin, a man who was regarded to be the finest lyricists in Russian literature.
"Vy pravy. tak sladko. Vsya moya barkhata s yego zhivym miganiem -Lishʹ dva 're right. An outline of the air, I'm so sweet. My whole velvet with him alive by blinking - Only two wings..."
"Do not ask: Where did? Why rush? Here I light the flower down. And now - breathe." For how long, without purpose, without any effort. I want to breathe? That is it now, flashing, Raskin wings. And fly away."
Illya slipped his finger under the butterfly just as he had that day behind the dacha when he was a child and smiled, a moment later it gently flew off, disappearing down the empty street.
"You okay tovarisch? You seem to be waxing a little poetic. The sun getting to you?"
He had completely forgotten about his partner's assignation with Angelique, as well as his annoyance over it.
"I am fine," Illya answered. This time he really meant it. Sometimes it was good to just let things go in order to find a little serenity on a summer's day.
.
finis