Of all the people in this universe I know full well when I’m making an excuse to do something that gives me pleasure. Wisdom and age may be reflected on my face, yet even now I cannot deny myself the basic pleasure that is Illya.

In more morbid moments I contemplate the strangeness that is this life and all the better parts have been filled with the Russian. Relief when we survive yet again. Joy when we are allowed to be ourselves. The memory of the first touch, there was no romance in that moment. Just need, I saw him die and like a phoenix he came back to me, covered in ash and spitting curses but he survived. His demands to be released from medical were imperious and no one but I was allowed to see the need in those beautiful blue eyes.

We came together in his apartment, rough and demanding with barely a moment to catch our breaths. Neither one of us to this day can remember who pounced first but in honesty I’m certain it was Illya. He always was braver than I in matters of the heart. And when he came sobbing in my arms covered with sweat and crooning in Russian I understood the love he had for me. It would take a stronger man than me to deny what I craved. Still crave.

He thinks I’m not watching him, but I’ve always watched. The way he moves, the way he dances, the way he runs and, God Forbid, even the way he fights has always been a source of visceral pleasure to me. Tonight there is no difference except the lack of fear in me to openly admire the man.

He is still strong and proud, cherubic features contorted to something akin to distaste as the women mill around him. Ah see now, one has finally caught his eye. She is not classically beautiful and certainly not young but she is all the things I know would catch my partner. The bright eyes alert with intelligence, the wry smile that curved her coral lips, the simple and elegant black gown that showed milk white shoulders, the gentle sway of her hips and Illya reaches forward, clutching her to him as if a life raft in a storm and a rare genuine smile graces his face.

I can almost hear the mouthed “Spasibo” as he kisses her on both cheeks as she dismisses the endless streams of courtesans from his presence to steers him into a quiet corner. Gratefully Illya sinks down into the Regency chair and crosses his ankles a clearly defensive gesture most others would assume as arrogance.

And he is that, I’ll grant you arrogance and Illya seem intertwined with each other. But under that, is a shy man, who doesn’t fully accept the beauty of himself, who has grown up in a harsh world to still find beauty and peace in her sweet depths.

I’m not jealous, only aware of him. The woman is the Ambassador’s wife and a lone Russian in a once hostile land. Hong Kong will eventually go the ways of the new world with commercialism and lost ideals, but for now she clings to the pretty hierarchy of the old world. Where people behave in ways we understand and can predict.

She reaches for him, a silent communion between them as he twines his hand with hers, the ice cold vodka sweating in the heat as the glass becomes slick with condensation. They share a smile and more, they share a home a single memory of being different and finally coming together like lost siblings.

Women pass me by now, I am no longer the centre of attention, and perhaps I have changed my persona so much that they know now I am bored with them. Or moreover, I have allowed Illya to shine, to bask in the glory of his own light for a time before I claim him again.

The alpha male in me needs to mark his territory, but the man still wonders what it is that he sees when he wakes to my face. Why he stays with me when I can offer him so little.

So I step back, allow the shadows to claim me and watch him, give him the moment so that he can make his decisions and still he comes back. No matter how far I push him, no matter what I give him he comes back because in all of what we are, we are partners. I know his soul and he knows mine, even down to the petty insecure urges that plague me.

No man, no matter who can stand his days in pious contemplation without asking for proof. I find it hard to believe that he loves me. Each day awakens with new challenges and we spend so much time apart, so many moments lost between us that those we claim are all the sweeter for knowing that at least we are consistent.

Even when he leaves me, and I’ve no doubt he will, over and over again only to come home and find solace in each other. Completion in our souls as we cling to each other in the turbulence of our world, we never ask what has happened. What we had to do to survive the affair, only the heart knows the truth and it is one we have never spoken out loud.

I love him. Sooner or later I will have to say the words before they break me, but it wont be tonight. He has found me; his eyes watch me as I have watched him. The palm I’m behind gives little protection from his knowing gaze and I feel vulnerable.

As I step from my concealment a pretty girl orbits past me and I am compelled to flatter and begin my dance anew. A scowl briefly crosses his face and is replaced with a small smile. He knows me too well.

I do love him and I will tell him, but just not tonight.