Soft peach satin swept the floor, and bare feet walked across the cold, hard wooden floor. Elizaveta sighed, staring out the window over the streets of Vienna. While war raged on, she hadn't been touched by the blights and the violence. A trickle of sweat was still rolling down her neck, despite the long cold hours of the night. Smoke curled from her lips, ashes fell onto her bare toes. Behind her, the bed creaked and moaned as a man got out of it. Her dressing gown, soft in color, soft to the touch, was wide open. She watched the sun rise over the city, her light beige skin illuminated with pinks and oranges, maple brown hair piled messily onto her hair. A few loose strands cascaded down. Hands brushed her skin, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.
"Did you sleep well?" He asked, hair so white and eyes so peculiar. His lips kissed the tender flesh behind her ear. "Go home, Gilbert..." she said, biting her lip. He stepped away, chuckling deep and dark. As the door slammed shut, she turned around. The room was a mess, the bed naked and damp with sweat. Two empty bottles of wine sat perched on the bureau, glasses on the floor, one half full. A picture frame lay on the floor, a shard of glass a few centimeters away. She reached down, picking it up.
The glass was shattered, making the image distorted. A smiling man was wearing a dashing suit, sitting at a grand piano in the same home, different room. His young bride, Elizaveta, was by his side, but looking away. The young man, with his dark hair and wire rimmed glasses, was proud as a peacock beside his two prized possessions.
Elizaveta moved to the bed, and sat down. Her husband had gone missing in action two months prior after having been away for two years. Her lover of 6 months would be leaving soon enough, and then her bed would grow cold again.
For the first time in a long time, she cried.