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The dim light at the wine bar painted mysterious portraits of its visitors.

“Make it a double,” he heard her saying. It was her second double. She ordered a cocktail he had never heard of before—Martinez. And each time a waiter glanced at her with appreciation.

Sophistication, eh? Ok, it was expected. Her appearance promised something intriguing, exotic even.

She had porcelain skin. Her straight hair was Dita Von Teese-black. Deeper than jet-black. And no, she didn’t have rouge on her lips and her nails were not polished with that color, either. In fact, her round lips had just a gloss. Her eyes were disproportionately huge. But that’s because her face was very thin.

When she glanced occasionally to where he sat, those eyes drilled right through his skin and to the very core, crushing molecule structure. And maybe even reaching something people call soul.

Her two doubles of that rare cocktail didn’t have any effect on her. She sat upright, composed. Her perfectly tailored suit didn’t wrinkle. Everything was as pitch-perfect as when she just entered the wine bar. She was… elongated. Very slim. Perhaps on the verge of getting skinny. The waiter nodded to her.

And now while almost facing him, the woman didn’t give any damn about the space around her. She glanced occasionally, yes. As if her eyes drilled through his flesh, but she did that with each object and subject her eyes fell on.

He had an urge to hear her voice again. It was suitably low. Would she order a third round of doubles?

Oh, let her!


Victoria Kuzmina was born in the capital of the dying USSR. They threw Armenian, Russian, Ukrainian, Jewish and a dash of Gipsy blood in her, shook it and voila - here she is. Seven years ago, she moved to France. She writes women-centered fiction and screenplays. In her real life, Victoria is a marketing consultant.

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