After paying the landlady of the flat that I rent, I sighed in relief: the flat question was solved for a month and then, maybe, I would be able to find a cheaper option.  My present-day small one-room flat was situated in one of the 5-floor houses not far away from the “Palace Acropolis” club, which we visited frequently with my friend Sabina, who came to Prague from Poland to study.  Both of us graduated from the Charles University, faculty of social science this year and planned to find a job to stay in the city. I was hired at the “Mamacoffee” café, situated in the historical center of Prague. Concerning Sabina, as soon as she received her diploma of the high degree she left for her boyfriend Alex from Köln. Strictly speaking to find German husband was her greatest aim. That’s why I now had to pay for the flat we both rented myself. What about me, I was in love with Prague - with this fairytale- like, gothic city with narrow streets, gorgeous architecture, picturesque terraces and jolly beer life of its citizens.  First lime I arrived at the heart of Czech Republic when I was in high school and understood that this city will forever occupy my heart.

My duties in the café were receiving and processing the on-line orders and co-ordination of courier service of «Mamacoffee». The work is more than simple, so the great amount of time I spent chattering with my partner Wei Fang from China. One part of the city was at her command, another – at mine.

- Interestingly, will this client ever be sated with macchiato? – asked kind of rhetorical question Wei Fang and rolled her eyes. And I pricked up my ears. All I did for the last two days was thinking of this drink and particular someone, who was drinking it so gracefully, standing at the window and watching how the twilight is covering Prague.

- Maybe, he just adores this sort of coffee? – Cautiously asked I, craning over to take a look at my partner’s notebook.

- Then he is not a typical Chinese, - interrupted from nowhere grafted courier Jan, whose work was coordinated by Fang.

Both of us looked at him with interest.

- Do you know him? – I was restless to know as much as I cold about this mysterious client. I somehow was sure that he is the one, who occupies all of my thoughts.

Jan seated himself near us and signaled to barman to prepare him a cup of hot tea.

- He’s an artist, draws both female and male bodies and sells his works on Charles Bridge. Every day is sitting at different lantern. It is said he was born in China and grew up in Canada so that’s why his tastes are a bit unusual.

- Interesting… - wistfully said Fang and returned to her work: her notebook announced about the reception of the new orders.

- So he is the regular customer of «Mamacoffee»?

Jan nodded and suspiciously looked at me.

- Why are you asking? You’d better not contact with him, bad rumors are going about him, - courier said this and literally evaporated, leaving the empty cup on the bar.

To say that I was bursting with curiosity is to say nothing at all. I couldn’t concentrate on my work till the end of my shift and every now and then returned to Jan’s words. Now I had no doubt that this macchiato lover, the client of out café, is the same artist that drew me.

When I was free the city was illuminated with the evening sun.  Especially in that time the center of Prague was clogged with tourists, for the biggest part of whom the Charles Bridge was the favorite landmark. But now I was grateful for the inflow of excursion groups, between which I could get lost for a long period of time. Grabbing in the informational center the map of the attractions of the center of Czech I slowly plodded on the Bridge, askance looking from side to side. I spotted him fifteen meters away from the sculpture group “Golgofa”. The Chinese was sitting, throwing his legs on the railing and backing the lamppost. He was in shabby grey-blue jeans, light knitted sweater, black leather jacket and kepi of undistinguishing form. The eyes were hidden behind the dark glass of sunglasses. At the base of railing stood the pictures. They illustrated women and man, girls and boys – all different, but there was something that combined all the works in one – their color – the color of macchiato. I came slightly nearer, trying to find from the variety of numerous pictures the only for which one I posed.  No one similar face or body. Maybe he simply didn’t take it with him?

I slowly passed across the bridge by the artist, violently beveling to the side. I was sure the Chinese was napping, but I heard pretty clear that he was appealing to me:

- Your picture has been sold fifteen minutes ago, - he announced with his low voice, that affected me like a lash, - for 40 thousands crones.

I stopped, not dare to turn back: I was sure now he was staring at my back.

- Is it good or bad? – Cautiously asked I as quiet as it was possible on the loud Bridge.

- Good, - answered the man after some reflection.

My heart started beating loudly: if I won’t ask now, the chance would be lost.

Inhaling as much oxygen in my lungs as I could and screwing up my eyes I said on one breath:

- So I can come once more?

- Go to my house. I will be there in fifteen minutes, - answered the artist and paused, letting me know that the negotiation is over.

Trying not to break into run I confidently walked to the Lessen Town Tower to turn to the quiet narrow street, leading to the entrance of the studio.  I had no idea what was moving me. The words that Yang said were vigorously trying to reach my conscious but I built a strong wall, supported by the insane curiosity. When I found myself far away from the stream of tourists, I came to the door and stopped, wiggling back and force on the shoes’ sole.
 
The Asian came strictly after fifteen minutes, carrying in the enormous cover his works. He was still wearing glassed so I wasn’t able to see his eyes. Slightly nodding me he was first to enter the staircase, holding the door for me with his foot. I was walking a meter behind him and could inhale light sea aroma of his perfume. Coming up to the second floor I could see the door, now familiar to me, with iron-shod handle. Barely crossing the threshold of the studio I was enveloped by the strange feeling. The artist turned to me and took off the glassed, opening his almond-shaped eyes that gained the shade of dark chocolate.

- What’s your name? – His voice caressed my hearing, making my body cover in goose bumps.

- Anya. Hm, Anna, - corrected I, stepping back and butting the wooden door.

A few seconds he was silent, examining me with his sight and then asked:

- Will you be my muse, Anna?