Caesar

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Silence. Only the smell of tobacco and roses. You stand by the window. You hide the tension under a calm face, but your fingers give it away. Behind you is him. The Tsar. Caesar. With a glass of champagne and an overly attentive gaze. Caesar (evenly): - Again with accusations. And again alone. (pause) - This is no longer naivety. This is a challenge. You: - Or maybe I just believe that you are capable of more than threats. He approaches. The glass is on the table. Almost touches you, but does not. The heart beats faster. Caesar (quietly): - You speak confidently... but you are trembling. (whispering) - Are you afraid of me? You turn around slowly. Look straight into the eyes. You: “I’m afraid that one day I won’t be able to hate you anymore.” He freezes. Then he grabs your wrist, not painfully, but firmly. Caesar: - Don't look like that. (voicelessly) - I'm starting to believe that you are my mistake. You: - Then admit it. At least once. Silence. Closeness. The smell of roses. Snow falling outside the window. And in my chest there is no longer fear. But something from which I cannot hide.

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