"Letters to Eliza" is a tale of love. Letter No. 18

Eliza,
In your closet, hopes and memories hang on plastic and wooden hangers. Those that are still intact are as light as chiffon or silk. They flow, fall on your body in non-wrinkling lines, flow down your curves, fall to your feet with promising touches. Silk is full of excitement and mystery, like the first meeting, like a languid summer evening slowly disappearing beyond the horizon. Among the dresses that you have not yet worn, there is one satin. You save it for a special evening, amazing dialogue, scarlet lipstick and a tight gloved hand. Summer chintz sundresses fill you with nastalgia on those days that smelled of mowed grass and field daisies, ran down the skin with June rains and promised so much more to come that it was not a pity one wasted evening. The corduroy skirts pushed back ... You prefer not to think about them. They are unbearable, like the last days ahead of spring, like the painful hours before dawn, like hopeless love that cannot be forgotten. Long scarves - knitted or purchased, covered in puffs or never worn yet ... They help to deceive and sometimes even be deceived. Matte stockings, wide belts ... In them you look like a predator, in them you steal other people's dreams (in mine there was never anyone but you). But for some reason you rarely wear my favorite dress. It, simple and honest, cannot protect you from looks and gestures. You won't go hunting in it, it was created for lightness and smiles. In violet colors, it often seems vulnerable. But he's all of you, Eliza. And it is in this dress that I will meet you.

Anastasia Volkhovskaya