Too short, I know, and a nasty, teasing 'cliffhanger'...Sorry, guys:) But after such a long period of silence, I'm glad I could put something on paper...:)

EDIT: and BTW, I'd appreciate if you shared your thoughts on this. It would give me some sense of direction:)

'She must be crazy.' I stared at Katarina whom I had just assisted at donning a marvelous corduroy dress with a practically non-existent lace top. And now she was shoving into my hands something absurdly long, glamorous, both rich and expensive, lusciously purple, that I was supposed to wrap around my waist; a tiny black piece of fabric was likewise meant to be draped around my upper body. 'Here,' hissed Katarina, 'we're doing a fashion show.' Her eyes were gleeful, and she knew what I knew: that I didn't have her proportions (no surprise here), but even I, with my pedestrian figure of a mortal woman, could pull off the outfit she, the goddess, was offering me, for whatever reason.

I've always been self-conscious about my generous (child-bearing - thanks, mom!) hips, but not so much about the rest – my tiny waist, lean shoulders, and I was rather proud of my breasts - small and pert; the skirt would camouflage my thighs and, along with the beautiful top, so tight in the right places, it would emphasize my taille and my light skin…I didn't notice how I went from a world-weary intellectual to a full-blown fashionista in a couple of minutes. Suddenly, Katarina was doing my hair, brushing it up into a nice tight knot and baring my neck and shoulders. I took a deep breath. I would have immediately recognized the signs of my painfully flushed skin and fluttering nostrils if I weren't trying to convince myself that it was me who finally grasped what 'fashion' was all about.

Benedict was giving funny, good-hearted comments on Katarina's dressing progress; he couldn't see me behind the portable screen in the middle of the room, and probably still assumed I was assisting Katarina, and not the other way round. I guess that was the reason he was so utterly unprepared when I finally emerged at the side of Katarina.

For as long as I've known him (not long at all), Benedict has always been his lovely, affable self, invariably obliging when it came to filling up tea cups and passionately discussing obscure and complicated subjects with his girlfriend's female friend (not difficult, thanks to his omnivorous curiosity). I found it fascinating to watch him talking non-stop, excitedly jumping up and down on the couch, constantly touching things around him, stroking his own thighs and hair – he had a profoundly tactile approach to the world, even to the most abstract ideas, and, in my imagination, I already saw him literally cuddling Immortality, Fame, Beauty...

I observed his ongoing inner struggle between his innate spontaneity and sensitivity, and the latter made him aware he could appear overwhelming to many, including me. Semi-consciously, he knew how to put someone at ease, appear intimately close and remain utterly respectful.

In short, he had grown to treat me as a new buddy with whom he appeared to have tons of common interests, this is, another familiar face in his ever-growing circle of friends.

And I hated it. Since the night I lay on Katarina's bed, my shoulder blades pressing into the sheets that smelled like him. In my mind, I had him come to me, driven by his selfish physical need, spread my legs wide apart with his large hands and pump into me, silently and brutally, the niceties of daytime forgotten.

Now, I stood before him. Stretched out in the bed, he was laying there like a cuddly puppy, one large hand on his naked knee, another resting lazily under his head, his eyes still closed.

'Do you like it? Or do you like her?' said Katarina.