clarifying: of my seven windows, this one's my favorite
when Andrei looked at me for the first time, I went deaf. all I could grasp was his image; his prominent jawline, those broken eyes. his lips held a strange shade of purple, as if he was constantly bruised, and his dark curls didn't seem to obey anything, the very least gravity (didn't know I was bisexual until I met him).
he spent that whole day teaching me some of Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 3 (B minor) on the piano. as I played, he leaned his chin against my right shoulder. to test my concentration, I thought at the time, but I would later find out that Andrei was a hopeless dreamer, and a slave to every lust and, not to mention, the fragrances of women. dreaming pornografic dreams about him, now that he's in Europe. he's touching them (older women in Barcelona perhaps, or younger ones in Berlin) digging his face into their necks. he always preferred Chanel No. 5.