The Wild Rose [antikvár]

The audience offered Katalin a tumultuous welcome and Steven was abruptly transported to New York, to a box in Avery Fisher Hall where he had watched the same magnificent creature take the stage. Katalin was wearing a different gown tonight but it was black and strapless the fine silk draping her lean form like a tűbe of gossamer. He had to fight to control the rush of emotions that flooded him when she bowed to the audience and he was able to gazé at her face, to see the green of her eyes, the luscious puff of her lips, the smooth velvet of her skin. As she took her seat, it was all he could do not to bound onstage. He was mesmerised by her presence. He tried to remember the sound of her voice, the feel of her touch. Guiltily, the touch he recalled was Cynthia's - the memory fresh and hot; his time with Katalin was fuzzy and distant. It had been six years. How could he think that their feelings were the same, that nothing had changed except their ages. With the passage of time, she had matured as a musician: what had been an exceptional talent had become an incomparable one. When the audience stormed to their feet to express their awe with a thunderous ovation, Steven rose with them, not just to applaud the woman onstage, but to acknowledge the woman who, still lived in his heart.