I place a cup of the finest porcelain in front of my guest and pour scalding black coffee into it. The walls of the cup are so thin that it feels as if the eternal darkness of night itself is being poured inside. Next to the cup lies a plate of cherries dusted with powdered sugar.
My guest looks sadly at the treat and turns away without even touching it. Of course…
"I always dreamed of fame. I dreamed of being applauded, praised, and exalted.
And, you know, at first, it was like that. Those were the best days of my life.”
The guest's gaze grows deeper and more sorrowful. How far and irrevocably gone are the days when outward glamour and recognition could, even for a moment, fill the echoing emptiness within…
"My debut took place in an art gallery. I truly shone then. I saw mesmerized eyes fixed on me, and it felt as if I could soar above the ground. Every movement was honed to perfection, my costume flawless, and my skin literally glowed with weightless silver dust. I looked like a magical, fragile bird, like a snowflake frozen in delicate balance within the endless dance of winter. I saw my reflection in a glass case — I know what I’m talking about."
The guest lifts her heavy gaze at me, as if I doubted her words. Not at all. I readily believe her, and I can almost make out traces of that same silver dust on her shoulders, yellowed with time, and on her slender wrists…
"My happiness didn’t last long. Unfortunately, the audience is always greedy for something new. And the classics went out of fashion.
I was forced to languish in loneliness and oblivion. It was unbearable to watch those who now shone in my place. I felt insane envy and rage — and bitterness toward this endlessly cruel world for letting my success fade so quickly, for leaving me to spy on others like a thief through a keyhole.
I was still in perfect shape. I could shine again. My figure hadn’t lost its grace, and my dress would sparkle once more, if only I stepped under the spotlight.
And luck smiled upon me! I was noticed by a distinguished man — a patron of the arts, a true connoisseur. I still remember his first glance: fleeting at first, then incredulous and astonished — who could have left such a treasure in the shadows?
Needless to say, I was flattered by his attention and tried to present myself in the best possible light. When he saw my dance, he was utterly captivated.
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
I was given the most luxurious apartments. I was surrounded by glass display cases, stained glass, and mirrors. The candlelight played with the golden reflections of precious jewels. I was treated like a queen.
He came to me every evening, settled comfortably into a deep armchair by the fireplace, and watched me dance. Sometimes it happened in the soft darkness, when my silhouette was barely visible in the flickering glow of the dying fire. Sometimes it was in the bright light of dozens of candles, so that one could see every curve of my flawless body, every fold on my shimmering dress.
He could look at me for hours, and I never grew tired of repeating my dance for him. We were never bored. Even when I wasn’t dancing, merely standing before him, we needed no words — a wondrous union of souls had formed between us. He gave me his delight and boundless favor, and I pleased him with my dazzling beauty and grace.
Everything changed so quickly...
One evening, as usual, he was watching me dance when he suddenly clutched his chest, went limp, and slid out of the chair...
I was desperate... I had absolutely no idea what would happen next. And I was terrified that I would become useless again...
And so it happened. Needless to say, his son shared none of his father’s passions. He had an unattractive, quarrelsome wife and completely ill-mannered children who, on their very first visit, smeared my immaculate dress with their sticky, dirty fingers."
The guest grimaces. It seems this memory stirs far more emotion in her than the death of yet another admirer...
"I was forgotten again. It was as if I had ceased to exist for these heartless people, consumed by their petty worries.
And then I was thrown out of the house like an unwanted object, like some piece of trash. It was so humiliating..."
The guest briefly allows herself to raise her voice but soon regains her calm, detached composure. The coffee before her slowly cools...
"By a twist of fate, I ended up with a moneylender. I became the jewel of his humble den. At first, he admired me alone, and then he began showing me off to his clients. But I never saw the same delight on any of their faces as before.
Perhaps it was the light. These wretched electric lamps don’t shine like candlelight at all
Their light is too harsh, too cruel. Under it, my dress began to look old-fashioned, and the signs of wear became visible.
The silver on my skin grew dull, and beneath it an unpleasant yellowish tint began to show through — one that could no longer be removed.
I grew disgusted with my own reflection. And one day, I simply refused to perform my flawless dance.
No one seemed to care. The moneylender didn’t even sigh — no attempt to speak to me, not even a hint that he cared.
He simply stopped noticing me. I became a faceless shadow, unworthy even of a warm, soulful glance.
I only ever dreamed of shining. That’s what I was made for — to be admired. Foolish people have no sense of beauty whatsoever!"
The guest raised her voice again, but her fervor soon faded. Very soon the last shimmer would fall away from her, and the hollow emptiness that had always hidden beneath her flawless fa?ade would be laid bare…
A ballerina from a music box visited my coffee shop today.
I can make a drink for you too. Just say the word.
