What does it mean to have passion in the human soul? Or rather, what does it mean to not have passion at all?

To a pianist, it would seem to mean the he couldn't express himself in only the most arrogant and bombastic of fashions. To the artist, perhaps that she wouldn't rather be caught starving at a street corner then take the "safe job" at her daddy's business. Perhaps to a business man, it would mean only that he wouldn't forsake his wife, child, and household for the sake of drowning the fears resulting from "passion" in a distilled loot of tonic and gin.

But to Estella Blackwell, it seemed passion made no difference. Oh, sure, it made a hell of a lot of sense to leave the comfort of middle America in search of some adventure in Russia. Sure, just about every conservatory had excepted her in America- Berklee, San Francisco, Juilliard, the works. But why stay there when you go to St. Petersburg? Certainly the prestige and history of such a music school would rub off... much passion there. What didn't make any sense to her was to actually carry a speck of passion into anything else.

The cigarette in her dainty mouth was starting to burn shorter now, and soon enough it be completely burned away to the stub. She dabbed just the little bit of it into the ashtray, as to not let it fall onto her lily-white skin. It seemed it was overflowing. "Dmitri?" her soft, childlike voice carried over to the man beside her in the bed, "Should I carry this over to the bin?"

The older man responded to her without even turning over to look her in the eye, "You mean to ask if you should fetch yourself more cigarettes while conveniently tossing the ashes. Go ahead, I'm not your father," he sounded incredibly gruff, more so than usual. Perhaps thick Russian accent made everything sound a little coarse, but perhaps that wasn't his intention. Who knew, though? Estella certainly didn't.

What she did know was this man was the closest thing to a savior that Russia could have given her. She was a stranger in a strange land, little knowledge of the ways, scanty knowledge of the language. Naturally many people knew English, but very few of them had any inkling of an idea how to use it. Dmitri Vasiliev, for all of his cold, stoic ways, used it to communicate. He asked her of home, asked of America. Estella was no Russian woman either, and damn, to a globally minded man like himself, nothing could have endeared her more.

Estella came back just a few seconds later, cleaned ashtray and fresh cigarettes in hand. "Dima?" she asked, "Would you care for one?" She extended her hand, revealing a cigarette.

Dmitri sighed, "I suppose it's late enough now." He took the cigarette from her hand, and lifted it to his lips, "Do you have a light?"

Estella lit it without any further question, and soon enough, the trail of the smoke from his and hers cigarettes mingled in the air, slowly rising to the ceiling. She shifted away from him yet again, her tiny body falling effortlessly onto the comfortable pillow. "Wherever would I be without you, Dima?" she inquired, if not half mockingly.

"My star," he replied, awkwardly kissing her hand that had previously graced the top of his pillow, "I'm certain you'd be a whore in some red light district outside of town. Or perhaps you'd have run back home. Didn't Juilliard accept you or-."

"I didn't want Juilliard, though!" she cried, an odd sound of desperation coming through. "I-I wanted something else. Anything else."

"What were you afraid of?"

"I wasn't afraid of anything..."

"You weren't?" Rarely had Dmitri seemed so old as when he decided to be critical of his mistress.

He was a man of forty one, she a girl of nineteen. Despite a full head of dark hair and his youthful brown eyes, somehow he could make himself seem older...disgustingly older, Estella might say.

Why should she care, though?

He had a comfortable bed to sleep in away from the dormitories, fresh food that she could be entrusted to cook for him, and he could provide ample time for her rigorous violin practice schedule.

What more could she need?

"I really wasn't afraid," Estella replied, standing up to dress herself, taking an overtly lengthy pause, "Of anything."

"My dear, you hesitated," Dmitri mocked. "Staying at home wasn't good enough for you?"

"No!" Estella cried, desperation coming through all too clear.

"Or maybe it was simply too good for you," Dmitri chuckled, "You were afraid of your folks, or maybe your old school, or maybe your old boyfriend.... you ran away as far as you could..."

"Shut the hell up!" she shouted.

"Aha," he smirked, "You always like to play things safe, don't you?"

"You don't know me..."

"Then why do you make love to me every night?"

"Because-"

"Because why, Estella? Because you're a scared little girl who ran away from home, is that it? Because I'm the closest thing to safety you could find? Because-,"

"You need to stop talking right this damn minute," Estella whispered. She turned her face and buried it in the shirt she was planning to wear that day, hiding the tears in the soft, blue fabric. "Why do you do this to me?"

"Why have you done this to me?" he parroted. His very vitriolic word snapped into her ears.

"What are you talking about?"

"You weren't the only desperate searcher, Estella. You beautiful fool, why did you make me crave you?"

All Estella had in reply was an annoyed eye roll as she lifted her face from the shirt.

"You've made a fool of me, my star. I'm far too old for your soul..." He finally stood up and looked her in the eye. "But you were so beautiful."

"You're a cruel man, Dima..."

"I was never right for you, perhaps no one is."

"Why does he do this to me?" she whispered, turning her face in desperation to the wall, "All I ever wanted was safety..."

"There's something in you," Dmitri sighed, "Something I don't understand. But it's why makes you, you." He walked right over to her and with his hand, turned her face to the window, "Somewhere, out there, is where your heart needs to be. It's that- that passion in your soul. I can't suffice it. And that's why you can't suffice me, either."

"What do you mean, Dima?" Estella's shaky voice now became more tinted in confusion then anything else.

"I knew you were a fool," Dmitri replied, "But I think you'll understand soon enough. Anyways, my dear, you've got class in twenty minutes, haven't you?"

"You never answer my questions..."

"Estella....it's simple, you see. You were supposed to a passionate young woman, and I... well, that doesn't matter. The point is, we can't go on distracting each other."

Estella coughed a few times, finished dressing herself, and picked up her things. "I'll be getting to class..."

There was something...maybe.

And through these old corridors, it seemed, there might have been the remainder of a broken dream, or rather the makings of a new one. Perhaps, maybe, just maybe, there was something for Estella to lay her heart on there, something that wouldn't choose expediency and lust over passion and love.

And through these old corridors, maybe the makings of her life could be found.