Katerina watches her Striking Ivan curiously as he turns from her, retrieving the book, all the way until he sits next to her. He leaves some space, but it’s almost a useless gesture to her, as she soon moves closer to get a better look at the pictures. Familiar pictures, the black and white, and gold and old lace coloured photographs that soon faded into pastels that grew into vibrant things, spectacle jewel tones. Oh things got more silly, but most certainly did they look fun. She repeats each dance style after Ivan, to herself, thinking she’s mouthing it, a little too excited to realize she’s actually saying it all out loud. Rock and Roll makes her giggle, and her head rests on Ivan’s a moment as she covers her mouth for quiet’s sake. Instead of moving, however, like she had originally intended, she only shifts so she doesn’t have to crane her neck as much. This is harder to do with her D’mitri—his greater height making this position near possible to transition into seamlessly—but fitting against Ivan takes but the moving of her arm. Like puzzle pieces, only his piece is from a different puzzle. Or maybe his isn’t. Maybe D’mitri is the one you’re trying so hard to force—
Katerina sniffs, suddenly reaching out and flipping to the next page. The ridiculous do with the slicked back hair and leather jackets, pink and purple skirts that offend her remind her too greatly of her D’mitri and stupid, horrid Grushenka. There’s also something steadily depressing about how the picture progress. In the more familiar photos, the dances are so well contained, tidy and straight faced. As time goes on, that fades out in favour of more loose, less… refined looking things. And it looks as though what they lost in tradition they gained in straight joy. What she has always thought of as polite reserved expressions look instead stoic and with little life. The eyes seem dead in their time in comparison to the wide eyes that sparkle as the decades pass. Pictures of their time could never do Ivan’s eyes justice but this time could. His perfect stare, lovely eyes. Photographs are little stands against time, fighting to be remembered, or to preserve a moment or thought. Their time could never preserve them the way this time could.
She nuzzles his shoulder partly to get longer bangs away from tickling her nose, and partly for something else. The 1970’s depicts very friendly positions, and she snorts the smile in her voice. “One would be locked away for such a display!” The each time period had several pictures, and after another page of ridiculous positions, a very simple one appeared. The woman had her arms around the man’s neck, head on his shoulder, his hands resting loosely on the small of her back. She had a flower on her wrist, and he wore a very straight black suit. Several people in the background are all in the same movement. Slow Dance it read. “That one looks easy.” Her voice is softer as her eyes rest on the picture. “Don’t you think?”