Wilt
Things were eerily quiet. The record playing P. Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Flowers did nothing to calm my nerves as I was made to sit in the same office for the second time that day after dinner. It wasn't Ivan this time but the devil himself who had his eyes closed and back rested on the majestic chair on the other side of the desk. His fingertips on both hands touching each other in a poise of calibrate relaxation. I watched on edge as his chest barely rose up and down, making the slightest movement, assuring me that he wasn't a statue nor a figment of my imagination.
He was very much here, in this room, with no one but me.