[ IP ] An Evening in St Petersburg

I inspected the chestnut horses pulling the trolley along the tracks. They were handsome, fit beasts, and I felt a strange desire to lift a harness off of one, climb atop and gently ride it back to my home. But are such feelings actually strange at all? I have never had a horse to call my own, or for that matter, the living space or means of income to support such an animal. No, I do not think such desires are strange; in fact, I suspect they are quite commonplace and should be expected. We always yearn for what we can not have, and it is much like an ember; for some, this desire glows in their hearts and minds and feeds their souls, while for others, this spark may consume and burn them readily. I believe myself to fall into a third, more dull category, in which I can feel my desires but have neither the ability nor the motivation to strive for them. I seem to have become a voluntary victim of ennui. 
 
 I shuffled past the trolley, continuing down the road. Dirty snow crunched underneath my boots; with a small curse, I realized that the sole of the right boot had worn away enough for my sock to moisten from the cobbles I walked upon. There was little I could do now; perhaps I would receive a bonus for the upcoming holidays, and I could buy a new pair of boots. Or I could spend it on a nice dinner at the Inn, accompanied by some lovely thing hanging onto my arm. Though this seemed unlikely - I was not charming or clever enough - it still brought a crease to my lips. 
 
 I climbed up the steps to my building and pushed the key into the lock for my flat. The door swung open noiselessly, and I shut it quickly after entering. I filled a pot with water and placed it on the gas stove; that would help heat the air a little. I dropped in a block of black tea in as well, giving a rueful glance at the broken samovar in the corner. As I began to make myself a humble dinner, the light streaming in through the window began to deepen in colors. Leaving the pan on the stove, I walked to the glass and stared out. A cold haze seemed to permeate the cobbled streets, hanging low and choking the citizens who hurried home. Clouds hung in wisps about the sky, highlighted red and yellow from the dying sun. My mouth watered as the smell of beef and onion reached my noise, and I turned my back on what was turning out to be another cold evening in St. Petersburg.
