Morphine the phantom of love. Ром Амор

      The flame crackled as it consumed the wood, while I greedily finished the wine. I would not dare get rid of the paintings; perhaps I am just a bit too thin-skinned. Deprived of his freedom shall be he who truly loves.

      I took a box from the cabinet. It once stored cookies and now holds our memories. She started keeping this memory box on the first anniversary of our love. I, a thirty-three-year-old successful businessman, was just only considering offering my hand and heart to this girl. On the inner golden side of the lid, an inscription glistened: “To those brought together by destiny”.

      The box held around two dozen Polaroid photographs, the Valentine’s Day card I gave her, my boutonnière from our wedding, the pearl necklace I offered her. Oh, how beautiful she looked with the rows of pearls framing her graceful neck… How anxious I was proposing to her, offering my hand and heart to her on Valentine’s Day.

      Catching the glow of the fire, my wedding ring glinted with gold reflections. I still wore it. It had become an extension of me. Outweighing all photographs and gifts. The eighth thread tying me to Marina.

      I took out the photographs and started looking through them. I knew each one by heart. I could repeat every word uttered in those moments flooded by the camera’s flash.

      On this one it is the first time Marina got behind the wheel of a car that I had bought her. On that September day, she nearly crashed the brand new Aston Martin. Driving was not her forte, and like many other women she did not have a particular passion for cars. It’s a pity that the car had to be sold. It was really her style. Yet Marina did not really care much about how people perceived her. Her main virtue was compassion. She believed it was shameful to drive luxury wheels while majority in this country could barely make ends meet. Although, in my opinion, another reason why she rejected my gift was that she loved riding in the city tram. In this lovely time-wrought tram around Podol. The tram that slowly and deliberately moved along the old and narrow streets of one of the most beautiful cities on earth.

      Often, something would spring to her mind, and on a day off she would drag me by the hand to the tramway stop. We would jump into the red and yellow tramcar and slowly accompanied by the beat of rails and mechanics, take a ride down the memory lane of her childhood. It was a tribute to the time when the parents of little Marina would take her to kindergarten and school in a tramway just like this one. Those memories were so sweetly preserved in her memory that it sometimes seemed that her longing for banging mechanical parts was stronger than her love for me.

      She would always grab some change for such rides and pay the ticket for both of us. As if taking me out on a date. I would always joke that I had to repay her quite dearly afterwards for one such ride.

      A young woman’s standing in a red knitted dress with her back to the viewer and a man’s hand in the frame: we were at her birthday. Blowing out the candles on the cake, she would make a wish to become my wife. I would have continued to make her dreams come true, if only God had given us more time. Perhaps, we would have been able to explore a thousand more universes for two, but we would never find out.

      She has left me all alone in the fathomless universe of solitude.

      No, I am not ashamed of it. I have even come to love this feeling, for beneath it lurks the opportunity to spend time with her. Even sitting here, spending this evening by the fireplace, I am not so alone after all, as long as the sparks of love for my wife continue to warm my heart.

      When you are alone, you cannot figure it out straight away. Sometimes our daily lives swamp us so fully that even if we are in a love relationship with someone, we remain alone. Many a couple experience such a feeling in their family life when the breadwinner who provides the material amenities is engrossed in the mission of providing for the family. Such a menace loomed over us, too. In the first year of our love, I was still managing a bunch of quite successful projects in Russia and Europe, and, as a result, was spending many days and nights away from home.

      When I was still a very small boy, I dreamt of travelling around the world and making big money. It took me a few years to achieve it. My dream came true when I was appointed executive director of one of the biggest Ukrainian companies. It was that year that we met.

      Upon arriving in Kyiv from the airport, I would always pay visits to relatives and friends. But it was not the only reason for overcoming such great distances. It was in this city that I was able to find myself. During my walks in Kyiv’s parks I would find this unity.

      One warm spring day, as I was whiling away before a meeting with an important state official, I strolled in a magnificent park stretching over the Pechersk hills. Women and men confidently swept by in business suits without outerwear. I, not having considered the weather conditions for that day, was suffocating in my beige overcoat, until I took it off and slung it casually over my arm. Thus, as I was strolling and lost in thought, I realised that I am already over thirty, and being constantly between Vienna and Riga or Moscow and Kyiv, I had remained a bachelor. It was time to live not only for myself or for my father and mother, but it was time to become a father and a husband. They may well be unusual thoughts for a guy, but these were exactly the thoughts that were on my mind on that day, the day when she crossed my path.

      Suddenly all these thoughts about family and marriage came into focus. I saw her. A young woman in a beautiful light blue dress with golden brown hair. My steps slowed, and I could barely contain my desire to brush against this angel. Struck by her beauty and grace, I was too lost for words to be the first to strike up a conversation. Not to mention that chatting up girls on the street is not something I was brought up to do. At first she seemed unattainable, like a distant star to a pilgrim. Walking towards each other we simply parted ways without saying a word.

      I could not but turn around, my eyes demanded more, my heart started beating faster. “I turned around to see whether she turned around to see whether I turned around.” Alas… The young woman marched on slowly and confidently, taking in the warm day. I did not know how much longer I would have to wait for my audience with the official, so I decided to follow the stranger. I turned around immediately and started following her slowly, and I was ever more charmed by her gait. She was so light, just like a bird in flight. Watching her thus for a few minutes, I realised that possibly she, too, was waiting for someone. Suddenly, she turned around brusquely and, with an unperturbed attitude, started walking towards me quickening her step. I wanted to say something again, but chickened out. This time, as we had twice passed one another, I was able to get a better look of her face, cherry-coloured lips and emerald eyes.

      ‘My name’s Marina, and I know that you’ve been watching me,’ I heard a woman’s voice say.

      I stopped. It seemed that she was giving me another chance to make the first move, but I, a fool, missed this chance being at a loss.

      ‘I’m Vova, pleased to meet you.’ Our eyes looked at each other and our hands touched for the first time. ‘Why don’t we have a cup of coffee?’

      ‘I’m engaged, but why not.’

      It was as if someone had poured a bucket of hot and then cold water over me. My smile resulting from touching this young woman almost disappeared. But there was no room for disarray anymore. I quickly remembered a good restaurant located in the vicinity and we headed there.

      Fortunately, Marina turned out to be very sociable and spontaneous. The barrier that sometimes arises when meeting a new person was as if demolished by a bulldozer. Only two minutes into our walk towards the place that served excellent French snacks and hot Belgian chocolate, we had burst into peals of laughter. That day I found an incredible lightness of being. A stranger had offered me this happiness in less than five minutes.

      ‘Good day, Vladimir Romanovich,’ the restaurant manager greeted me obligingly as we came in. I felt like a Communist Party bigwig in the times of the Soviet Union.

      ‘They even know you by name here, Vladimir Romanovich. Do you moonlight as this establishment’s promoter?’ said Marina jokingly.

      ‘Well, I have no choice at times,’ I said playing along.

      We