Бесплатный фрагмент - The Perfect Sin

“The Perfect Sinner”

(“I Grant You Contempt”)

(The Story of a Nameless Man)

Fedir Tytarchuk

This is a story about a man whose inner world collides with a harsh, suffocating reality. He exists within a web of rules, conventions, and silent judgments — where every move is measured and every thought weighed. But within him grows a protest — quiet, stubborn, and unstoppable. He crosses boundaries, rejects imposed norms, and seeks his own path, even when it leads through pain, doubt, and loss.

There are no easy answers here, no comfortable truths. It is a story of resistance, of fragile balance between freedom and destruction, and of the struggle to remain oneself when the world demands surrender.

Blending elements of psychological drama, emotional tension, and intimate confession, the book invites readers into a realm where rebellion becomes a form of survival.

The ending remains open — a quiet promise of a new beginning, and a reminder that meaning is always found on the edge of defiance.

We are all mortal, but our sins are eternal!

1

The cleanliness of the restroom had clearly been overrated. Streaks on the tiles — left, no doubt, by the same rag used to mop the floors — pointed to a blatant disregard for the owner’s instructions, for whom cleanliness was something of an obsession.

or some reason, those streaks interested Him now more than everything else happening around. Probably because He felt nauseous — terribly so. His head was about to split apart, his stomach clenched in spasms, having already thrown up everything possible several times. Sweat flooded His eyes, and His treacherous legs threatened to give way, plunging Him headfirst into the toilet.

“Well, that wouldn’t be the worst solution,” — flashed through His mind for some reason. The water called to Him, falling once again in a stream, carrying away everything that touched it. He could have watched it forever if not for…

If not for the start of the workday — colleagues stomping first one way, then the other, pausing for a while by the sinks, and… He couldn’t take it anymore — He came out. Though His unsteady, staggering gait could better be described as “falling out of the stall,” let’s still say — He came out.

From the other side of the mirror, something looked back at Him — something to be feared not only there, beyond the glass, but, truth be told, in life as well. The fire in His extinguished gaze burned somewhere far away — deep within a cluttered, uninhabited cave, whose low arches pressed down on anyone inside, stirring up fits of claustrophobia mixed with groundless panic. His hair demanded much — and above all, not styling. After the night’s escapades, it could use a good wash, to remove at least the remnants of cigarette ash and something else that foam parties tend to leave behind. His sallow, sagging skin no longer held by tired muscles hung in folds — on His cheeks, under His eyes, on His chin.

He looked at His reflection again, smiled faintly — and found nothing attractive in it, nothing that could…

Water filled His ears, flowed down His collar, soaking His already ruined shirt. Soap foamed but refused to cleanse. Lathering His hair a second time, He again lowered His head under the stream — cool, reviving, bringing Him back to life. Luckily, the workday had already begun, and no one was bothering Him in the restroom.

The previous evening — like the one before it, and like many others — had started with the same phrase: “Not tonight! Tomorrow’s a hard day, I need to sleep…” and, naturally, ended as all such evenings do.

He somehow stumbled out of the restroom, dripping water across the hallway floor. In the restroom, as usual, there were no paper towels, the automatic dryer worked any way but properly, and using toilet paper for such purposes had been ruled out since the last time — when its remnants stuck stubbornly in His hair and raised unnecessary questions.

Memories began returning — but with difficulty, through a haze of headache and memory gaps.

His T-shirt was still there. Thank heavens! Though it was the last one. The pack of ten cheap Chinese cotton shirts bought for occasions like this had somehow vanished, turning into a pile of unwashed laundry at home. That’s probably where today’s shirt would end up too — the one He was now vigorously using to dry His hair, trying to restore at least a semblance of order.

The morning was chilly. Either an anomaly for mid-summer, or the river nearby, or perhaps the lingering alcohol still being — or no longer being — processed by His body. But He woke from an inhuman cold. Found Himself on a park bench, in the middle of the city, a few steps from a hanging pedestrian bridge over the river — its cables reminding Him of a giant unfinished harp. It was as if someone had intended to build a harp for some local deity from city hall or perhaps for some technical novelty — a robot, maybe — He mused. But then they either changed their minds or ran out of funds, and since the structure was already built, the money spent, the investors impatient, they repurposed it as a bridge.

Next to Him, on the same bench, lay a woman whose age seemed to reach back to pre-war times — or at least that’s how she looked — and judging by the unbuttoned trousers and the used condom on the ground, things had indeed gone… as expected.

She was sound asleep, using His rolled-up jacket as a pillow. Her plump legs, barely covered by a short skirt, twitched slightly now and then. Her ample curves occupied nearly the entire bench, and He wondered how there had been room for Him at all. Judging by the fact that He’d woken not on the bench but on the tiled path beside it — there hadn’t been.

— What, again? — snapped Him out of His thoughts Zhenya, the local tinkerer and, at the same time, perhaps His only friend at work.

— Spare me the morals, my good man! Just pour me a drink, — He replied grandly. The arrogance was, of course, feigned — and they both knew it, bursting into laughter.

— A hair of the dog, huh? — Zhenya clarified.

— I’d be infinitely grateful, colleague, — He slumped into the chair, twisting a fresh T-shirt in His hands.

— Then swing by my place in fifteen minutes, — Zhenya patted His wet shoulder. — Gotta stop by the production floor first…

— But of course, — He called after him, tossing His shirt onto the floor.

For a moment, the T-shirt blocked His view, sliding pleasantly down His worn-out face. But when His vision cleared again, the world had changed. Most of His view was now occupied by a pair of hips — starting from the feet below, in massive platform shoes, the height of fashion.

It was Karina! The last person He wanted to deal with right now.

He had known Karina for over a year. Their acquaintance, if one could call it that, had only recently grown closer — and at first, it was a rather turbulent affair.

Karina was a young woman tall enough to look down on most people — both literally and figuratively.

He gave her another assessing glance, letting his eyes travel from her platform shoes upward, along her slightly heavy legs wrapped tightly in stretch jeans. He noted the unbuttoned top of those jeans — something he would once have taken as an invitation. He remembered the curve of her waist, now hidden beneath a loose blouse, and his gaze lingered for a moment on the place where he had fallen asleep more than once, sinking into the valley between her ample forms. She was clearly furious.

— You disgusting bastard! — Karina spat her anger at Him.

— I can’t disagree with your assessment, my dear! Would you care to step inside?…

***

The blood was still oozing, seeping through the clenched fingers of his hand, as he tried to cover his scratched cheek. Alas, his offer had not been met even with a hint of disgust; instead, it served as a catalyst, turning verbal anger into its nonverbal form. And he was extremely lucky, because a polished claw, coated with acrylic lacquer, flew straight at his eye — and if he hadn’t dodged at the last moment, the situation could have taken a very different turn.

— And the same again! — exclaimed Yevgeny, theatrically raising his hands.

— Leave it, dear sir, — he replied. “Better pour me a drink!”

— It’s already done! — said Zheka, handing him a measured chemical cup. — Here you go, sir. Adjust your preciousness. — He was laughing at the situation.

— As usual? — he asked. “Spirits, distillate, fragrances?”

— You forgot the citric acid, sir! — Yevgeny corrected him.

Yevgeny was a chemist — one of those who worked late into the night with their reagents, never understanding why others mocked them, reducing all of existence to a chain of chemical and physical reactions.

Zheka wore an espagnole coat, strangely calling it “Spanish.” Arguments that a Spanish coat is a type of illness and that his beard was merely unkempt did little to convince him. Zheka was thin, slightly taller than average, and the image of a mad professor was completed by his reagent-stained lab coat, occasionally tousled hair, and thin-framed glasses.

— Looking at you, Zheka, I feel like hurting you,” he said, downing about 150 grams in one go. “Maybe it’s the glasses?” — 150 grams was clearly too much, and he realized it immediately despite the scent of fragrances and the bitterness of the citric acid added in abundance. — You know, they say people with glasses are more enjoyable to hit. Statistics, you understand.

— Well then! — Zheka protested again. — I make creams for him, help him with hangovers in the morning, and he still wants to hit me. And what if I hit you?!

— That can always be tripled, — he agreed. “But I’ll need to get you drunk first. And more, because I’m about to chart the curve of my aggressiveness relative to the amount of alcohol consumed.

— You forgot to include time, — Zheka corrected him.

— No, time is already a third variable; the dependency will be complex, and my brain is already not entirely in order.

— Then I suggest tea, — said Zheka, the kettle clearly set in advance. Due to his politeness, he could not help but offer tea when he was about to drink himself.

“Make it with sugar,” he nodded. “Be so kind, noble sir!” He cast another glance around the room.

“About twenty squares, at least, “he noted, observing the room full of tables, mysterious devices, equipment for mixing, weighing, and whisking. Over there, Zheka was making creams for his female colleagues. There were about a dozen of them in the lab, no less, all secretly laughing at him. This somewhat bothered Zheka, but as soon as he got absorbed in his alchemical experiments, he was almost impossible to pull away from them — reality lost all meaning.

— And where’s your chicken coop? — he asked, surprised by the silence.

— I, tavó… — Zheka glanced at him slyly. — I canned them for winter.

— Ah!” he nodded understandingly. — Also necessary…”

— They lay eggs, — Zheka explained, pouring boiling water. — They all do everything together. Including laying eggs. A chicken coop, in short.

It was hard to disagree. A chicken coop is a chicken coop, especially when a dozen young women, mostly sedentary, gaining some curves, walk together in white coats, sometimes even with caps. Seeing them lined up and clucking to each other, the analogy was obvious.

— Help yourself, — Zheka handed him a cup. — I added something extra; don’t be surprised by the taste. It removes toxins. You’ll run a bit, of course, but by lunchtime, you’ll be livelier than anyone else.

— Thank you, — he accepted the cup from the chemist’s hands.

His gaze immediately went to the window. Zheka’s lab was on the second floor of a newly built building, overlooking the back of an administrative building, where smokers gathered, exchanging all the latest gossip.

— There are yours, — he pointed to the group in white coats. — Smoking, right in their coats!

— They can do it! — Yevgeny agreed, moving among his devices and reagents, beginning to immerse himself in his world — if he wasn’t pulled out abruptly, the conversation was practically over.

— Look, they’re gossiping about me too! — he pointed somewhere. Yevgeny stirred, raising his previously absent gaze.

— You? Why?

— Because! — he indicated the redness of his cheek and four fairly deep scratches on it.

— Ah, that! Who did it?

The smoking area buzzed with activity. It could be stated with the highest degree of certainty. The tall, striking Karina clearly played her role. Although the sound was “off” for the lab listeners, her gestures and presentation clearly conveyed the storm of emotions now available to those around her.

— Was that her doing? — Yevgeny asked.

— Exactly!” he confirmed, even with some pride.

— Well, I don’t understand you at all! -” the chemist spread his hands. — Such a girl! And you! What did you say to her?

— Classic, dear friend! Classic! Friendship might have worked if nothing significant had happened between us. But my suggestion to occasionally spend time without commitment seemed insulting to her. The presence of other partners was simply unacceptable, and the proposal I made in the morning led to the act of physical retaliation. That’s all!

— You know, if I were a girl, — Yevgeny did not utter the usual disparaging words men often use about women. To him, they were girls, even when they mocked a fat spot from a forgotten sandwich he had sat on himself. “If I were a girl, I’d call you a bastard, a misogynist!”

— “Something similar was presented to me by Karina this morning.

— And?

— I didn’t object, -” he nodded. — It would be foolish to object, especially since…

Silence fell. He studied the smoking group; Yevgeny did too, but their focus was clearly different. Zheka watched the bubbling, emotion-filled smoking area; he had already noticed something else.

— And who is that? — he finally asked.

— Where? — Yevgeny didn’t understand.

— There, the thin girl with the elegant cup in her hands. — She wasn’t smoking or participating in the general discussion but stood aside, observing with indescribable interest.

— I don’t know… — Zheka shrugged. — Probably someone new. She wasn’t here yesterday.

— Interesting… — he sipped his tea. — Interesting…

— You only react sexually to women! — Yevgeny noted reproachfully.

— I have high testosterone, high blood pressure, and, they say, southern blood. Otherwise, I cannot respond to young girls. Yes! My reaction, in most cases, is linked to the sexual component. I react sexually to almost everything. I don’t understand how others manage without this. They probably suppress their essence. No other way!

— Maybe that’s why you have problems?

— Admit it, it’s not my problem. It’s theirs.

— I can bet…

— Bet, bet, give me pleasure…, — he leaned back in the chemist’s chair. — And then I’ll tell you what Karina can do. You’re curious, right?

— Curious, -” Zheka replied with a touch of irony. — Then I’ll go and see for myself what you can’t. Deal?”

— I dare not impede, — he nodded, putting the cup aside. — But I warn you, you won’t hear anything new or good about me. Only the truth! Now, start…

2

Keeping the promise he made to himself — to go to bed earlier today — once again failed. Alas, the subway, close to eleven at night, trains running every fifteen minutes, and, surprisingly — or, conversely, predictably — empty cars.

The triple-seat, so disliked by him when the train was crowded, was now the only place where he had the strength to collapse, slipping through the doors that had swung wide open.

The train was clearly not new, but had recently undergone a major overhaul, so the familiar yellow lights were now replaced by LED strips. The light cut his eyes with its intensity, its high-frequency flicker making everything seem unnatural, almost like how his perception used to feel in nightclubs flooded with neon and specialized LED lighting.

He was alone in the car. Through a couple of windows separating him from the next car, he spotted a pair of teenagers passionately kissing at this late hour…

Fatigue hit only when his legs finally stopped feeling the strain. His eyelids fell involuntarily, shielding his consciousness from this world. And apparently, consciousness was only too happy about it.

The car rocked. The slight elevation changes and track curves are hardly felt by most in the subway, but if your internal “gyroscope” is finely tuned from a couple of reckless days and burdened by the grind of workdays, all these bumps and bends are felt much more sharply.

The train followed its path, speeding up, passing a span, slowing, stopping at another platform, throwing the hydraulic doors open, closing them, and moving to the next stop. In his head, everything blurred. The previous day seemed distant, intense, and unbearably unpleasant.

“Getting a proper sleep is definitely not happening!” flashed through his mind between thoughts of two meetings where he had been practically crucified over failed projects and memories of the scene in the smoking area, where he had been publicly scolded by nearly the entire female staff. He didn’t care much about the first — projects continued on schedule — but he had been reprimanded more for his lifestyle and behavior, which the management and other departments did not approve of, though they couldn’t openly voice it in an official meeting — corporate ethics, damn it!

As for the scolding in the smoking area — it was almost amusing. He must admit, he had secretly enjoyed watching the reactions sparked by his separation from Karina. He had given the female social environment a topic for discussion, apparently the only thing keeping it alive.

Zheka. That was the issue with Zhenya. Apparently, he had offended him somehow. He didn’t understand the cause of Zhenya’s withdrawal and retreat.

“Nothing significant enough to cause this reaction was said,” he wondered. He even seemed to have apologized. Or so it seemed to him. But again, his senses, already hazy after the process of recovering from the hangover, suggested that Zhenya had accepted the apology formally, not verbalizing the cause of his offense, leaving it in force.

“Alright, we’ll figure it out tomorrow…” passed through his mind. It had been worse before. He always found a way to connect with Zhenya, and sometimes his friend forgave far more than was warranted.

When she appeared, he didn’t even notice. Just her hair, gathered into a bun, brushed across his face as the train curved, and slipped away. A few seconds later, it happened again. His eyes instinctively opened, searching for the unknown irritant.

The irritant stood nearby, leaning her hips against the handrail separating the entrance from the triple seat. Her warmth washed over him, and now he felt it.

A wide pelvis, slightly plump buttocks hidden beneath a skirt of unknown cut and colorful material, the curve of a tired yet feminine strong back. A light upper garment with a slit running the length of her back and a single button at the neck, and unruly black hair — all appeared to him suddenly, immediately holding his weary gaze.

The car was empty. It had plenty of free seats, yet for some reason, she hadn’t moved more than a few steps, collapsing tiredly against the handrail at the entrance. Her entire posture spoke of extreme fatigue and a sense of helplessness, and through the slit in her back, the clasp of her bra looked at him. The lingerie was purple, which, to him, said something about its owner. He was convinced that the choice of lingerie color reveals more about a woman than almost anything else.

The clasp opened easily. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing. Apparently, it was a surprise for her as well. She jumped on the spot, covering her chest with her hands, where the dislodged element of clothing disrupted her comfort, revealing his intentions.

She stood a meter away, hunched over, nervously adjusting what he had just undone, her gaze almost incinerating him. If it had been up to her, she would have crushed him right there, but something prevented her from acting on her desires. Without saying a word, she stepped aside, sat on a distant free bench, and immersed herself in her thoughts.

She was already over forty. A network of sparse wrinkles had started to cover her once youthful and firm skin. A smooth layer of makeup indicated that she had used it for a long time, applying it carefully, probably spending considerable time each morning. A small handbag was all she carried, apart from a massive necklace. Light sandals completed her look…

She was clearly distressed. Her gaze darted around; her eyes lived their own lives, flashing with light, shooting deadly lightning, then dimming to a distant glow hidden deep within the abyss of her dark pupils.

— You have no reason to fear me, — he said, sitting down next to her. — I won’t harm you. Believe me. True, I can be unbearable at times. But there’s some charm in that, isn’t there?

She was about to jump up, to say something, but he gently took her hand, holding it lightly in his palms, and she found nothing to answer.

He spoke. Despite her fatigue, the words poured out of him effortlessly. It even seemed to him that he was merely a conduit for someone else speaking through his mouth. Fatigue, the sense of unreality, stripped him of any restrictions or responsibility, and he could allow himself to say almost anything he wished. She, apparently, wasn’t paying much attention to the content, enchanted by the way he spoke. Their states created a resonance, and now he simply couldn’t leave her; she needed someone, at least for this night…

***

Morning, as always, destroyed everything. The light of the rising sun, breaking through the closed curtains, dispersed all the romance of their encounter, and now each of them wanted to rid themselves of their partner as quickly as possible.

Without a word, he took a shower, using her shampoo, shower gels, and an enormous towel. The whole procedure took no more than five minutes, and the cup of coffee she handed him said it all: “Good luck!”

By morning, she seemed older. At least her loose hair, the thin robe over her bare body, the absence of makeup — apparently she had washed at night, while he had been lost in sleep like a tired child. Their eyes never met. He assessed her figure, remembered all her curves, the shape of her breasts, her surprisingly firm, slightly protruding stomach, and the place where her legs met, where he was allowed almost immediately, right in the hallway, without even having time to take off his shoes.

All the way to her apartment, he spoke about something; she listened, lost in her own thoughts, never attempting to pull her hand from his. Several times he tried to adjust something, but each time he attempted to free his hand, even briefly, she would immediately squeeze his palm, and he would return to her side. She lived in a district built during the industrialization era, a former tractor factory area, in one of the anonymous Khrushchev-style apartments. She apparently lived alone, but didn’t seem deprived of male attention. He didn’t particularly care. This was exactly the kind of situation where a woman needed someone — someone for one night, or at least not for long, without obligations or attachments. That suited him perfectly. In fact, that was the type of relationship he usually sought, and, of course, as soon as he entered her small apartment, he let his libido take over, taking charge of everything, including her.

He drank the coffee. It was hot and overly sweet — too sweet even for him. All this time she stood nearby, eyes lowered, shifting her foot on the linoleum, thinking about something, lost in her own thoughts.

He felt an urge to do everything “quickly,” right there in that hallway where it all began, especially since he was sure she wouldn’t object — or at least wouldn’t resist… But something inside held him back. He didn’t want to ruin everything, even if the act was desired, possibly by both of them, in favor of a proper farewell.

He returned the cup, thanked her, hugged her, and performed a ritual farewell kiss on her neck. He wanted to touch her cheek with his lips, but that seemed banal. Such a kiss felt official, overly clichéd. The neck — something entirely different.

He didn’t close the door behind him. She only partially shut it, watching him first with her eyes, then listening to his footsteps on the stairs, until the door downstairs clicked shut.

“Life is good!” he stretched, walking fifty meters across the already warm asphalt. “At least this morning.”

3

The District

The district, once home to tractor builders, greeted Him — surprisingly — with a morning coolness. Lush greenery of abandoned plantings, cracked asphalt lifted in places by massive roots. The chill, lazy cats basking in patches of sunlight, warm pavement, and a few passersby — that was all that surrounded Him on His way to the metro.

Descending underground, quickly passing the section belonging to the railway — just two minutes away from complete abandonment — and bursting into the brightly lit granite-tiled corridor of the subway itself, He casually remembered the lady with whom He had been lucky enough to spend the previous night. Her image surfaced in His mind and disappeared just as easily — never to return, most likely. She was now part of the past, though, He thought, it wouldn’t have been the worst idea to keep her on the list of those one could turn to in an unforeseen moment — for both body and soul.

Sometimes, “life cracked seriously,” and one needed someone who could create the illusion that existence wasn’t entirely hopeless — someone offering the comfort of another’s arms and warmth. More than once, people had tried to “tie Him down” and “settle Him,” but the inner feeling of a leash was unbearable. At the first sign of things turning into something serious, He would immediately pull away — sometimes disappearing altogether. That was His nature.

Women attracted Him. More than that — He simply couldn’t imagine His existence without them! They were not merely a necessary accessory; they were the very meaning of His life — but only as long as they didn’t claim His personal freedom or restrict His interactions with other members of their sex.

The cool air of the subway relaxed Him — relaxed Him to the point of drowsiness. The train rattled along, gradually filling with passengers rushing to work. They say that once upon a time, the direction toward the city center was almost empty at this hour. That was back in the days of the Union, when the main workforce headed to factories, and the morning flow moved toward the now-abandoned monsters of Soviet industry. Now, people hurried to offices in other parts of the city — heading in the opposite direction.

At Zhukov Station, not everyone could squeeze into the train anymore. Girls in low-rise jeans invaded His mind the moment He opened His eyes. Semi-transparent tops, sandals, bare bellies… His hands itched to touch, violating in an instant both moral and ethical codes — and perhaps even certain articles of administrative or criminal law.

Alas, the sun, the subway, the crushing sense of hopelessness at the threshold of the office — all of it destroyed the morning illusion of “a successful life.” On the contrary, the fatigue of recent days made itself known at once. He barely managed to stumble into His office. His legs carried Him straight to the chair, into which He collapsed, wishing only one thing — to drift away and send the world to hell.

Work, naturally, was out of the question. The only thing that could save Him now was a strong dose of coffee. The coffee machine was on the floor below, in the so-called “Kitchen,” the staff break room. It stood there quietly, indicator light blinking, waiting for someone to pour coffee and water into it. Naturally, there was no coffee.

But He knew perfectly well where to “acquire” some. In the cupboard above the machine, someone always left their pack, steadily dwindling day by day.

Contrary to His expectations, the Kitchen wasn’t empty. In fact, it was very much occupied. The young woman standing by the counter was — perhaps — too young. She was facing away from Him, so He couldn’t yet see her face. But from her figure alone, the weary and depleted male body immediately demanded procreation in the name of the species.

“Yeah, I’d sleep with her,” He thought — And at that exact moment, she turned around, fixing her still naïve gaze upon Him — the gaze of a girl who had stepped into adult life but had yet to truly understand it.

— What? — she asked.

— Guess I was thinking out loud, — He muttered, walking past her toward the cupboard where the coffee was kept.

— You wanted to sleep with me? — she asked in a childlike voice — one that made Him want that very thing even more. There was something in her — not yet awakened, but promising, as if great potential slept beneath the surface.

— I meant something else entirely, — He stammered, feeling the blood rush to His face. It had been so long since He’d last blushed that He’d forgotten what it felt like. Fortunately, she didn’t notice, still staring straight at His back.

No coffee in the cupboard, of course. He stood there frozen, not knowing how to respond or what to do next.

— I’ve got some, — she said in that same thin, almost fragile voice. — Only in a stick pack, though.

— Will you share? — He turned sharply — so sharply that she instinctively stepped back, though she’d been standing several meters away.

— Yes. — She handed Him the stick. — Will you drink it here?

He didn’t even know himself. Here? Why not.

— Only if you’ll join me, — He smiled. Apparently, His smile looked so weary that she immediately gave Him a look filled with pity.

— You must be tired.

He really was tired. The days — filled with hated, pointless work, though at least in an office. The nights — the other life, the one that drew Him in, though lately it had begun to repel Him more and more. At such times, life itself felt unbearable. The world grew hollow, He seemed misplaced within it, and the heaviness inside pulled Him toward the edge of a bridge or forward from the platform, under the next passing train.

Of course, that was all inside Him. Deep, unreachable, hidden from everyone. His inner world was His domain — no one entered there. For those eager for intimacy, He built artificial worlds tailored to them. It was interesting, even fascinating, but those worlds rarely matched one another. Mutual acquaintances were always puzzled: how could their shared friend appear so contradictory in everyone’s eyes?

— It’s just the blood pressure, — He replied finally. — You’ve already boiled the kettle?

She had, of course — it was already humming, ready to deliver its portion of boiling water. The mug — hers — was right there, and His trembling hands, blurred by the dark circles before His eyes, reached for it.

— What’s your name, girl? — He asked casually.

— I’m not a girl!’ she snapped. ‘I’m twenty-five already, and I…

“Maybe so, He thought. Maybe twenty-five. The last woman I knew at that age had two well-off lovers who kept her in comfort — and between their attentions, she earned extra money on a street corner in the evenings”.

— Sorry, I’m a bit blunt, — He cut off her indignation. “But still — what should I call you?”

— Alya, — she replied. — Alyna.

— Well then, Alya. Perfect. Let’s pour ourselves some coffee.

***

Alya turned out to be quite an interesting lady, involved in some kind of sport — something about teams, climbing, and quest-like challenges. He didn’t care much to understand the details.

There was something about her that made Him reconsider her entirely — not as an object of lust, but simply as a person. For the next fifteen minutes or so, they sat, drank their coffee, and talked about nothing at all. And for once, He didn’t feel the need to perform — to be the predator, to calculate His words, to entertain. She was something different: light, unburdening, not draining.

— Well, time to get back to work? — The coffee was gone.

— Yeah, let’s go, — she said quickly, almost flustered. — They’re probably looking for me already.

“Unlikely”, — He thought, knowing full well how mornings in the office went — but said nothing.

— What are you doing tonight? — The words slipped out of His mouth unplanned, already on the stairwell. Even He was surprised. The natural continuation of this day should have been rest — nothing more. But the old habits of the wanderer, the hunter, won out instantly over reason.

— I don’t know, — she said, looking at Him with those same naïve eyes. “I’ll have to ask my mom…”

— Right. Sorry, — He waved it off with a smile. — Forget it. Bad idea. Sorry.

And they went their separate ways.

4

— Remind me, — He asked, — how did you end up in My bed?

— Aren’t you against it? — Alya looked surprised.

Truth be told, He wasn’t. But neither was He eager to sleep with her. Fatigue demanded oblivion — right now — yet the naked female body pressed to His side, every inch of her skin against His, demanded attention, and…

— Sorry. I’m just tired, — He murmured.

— You live too active a life, — she said, and from her girlish lips, it sounded both amusing and defiant.

— How would you know about My life’s activity? — He smiled.

— People talk, — she whispered.

— Hard to argue with that…” His eyes were closing, hand frozen on her waist.

— They’ve been talking about You non-stop these past few days, — she continued, not noticing He was half-asleep.

— No surprise there. I won’t even ask what they’re saying.

— Karina’s mad at you. Says awful things.

— Only Karina? Amazing. I can think of at least four more who’d gladly join her righteous fury against Me.”

— You slept with them too?

— Worse.

— What could be worse than that? — she asked, genuinely curious.

— Sleeping together is just a physical act — fulfilling basic instincts, nothing more. Once all that talk about chastity and purity before marriage fades, you’ll understand. The real sin is destroying someone’s illusions, betraying their expectations.

— How do you mean?

— It’s when someone draws a line between intimacy and a relationship. They saw them as connected. I didn’t. To Me, intimacy was the end of it, not the beginning. Relationships without obligations — you know?

She nodded, pretending to understand, and pressed herself against Him again.

The strange thing was — He didn’t want her as a woman. His body wouldn’t have minded, but some inner switch had flipped. There was something about her that invited closeness — the dangerous kind — the kind that could lead, God forbid, to friendship, or worse, an actual relationship. And with Him, it was always either one or the other. People said friendship could turn into something deeper — but not for Him. Or maybe He just refused to notice when it did.

— So you hurt them all… — she murmured.

— From their point of view — yes.

— And from yours?

— From Mine… — He wanted to fall asleep. He still didn’t know why, after their walk by the river, He’d brought Alya home, practically started undressing her at the door. He hadn’t even wanted her — and now, He didn’t have the strength anyway. But that ingrained instinct, that primitive call of availability, had done its work. — From My point of view, — He continued, — our basic expectations simply differ. They wanted commitment. I was fine with the prelude.

— Really? — she asked softly, and He thought she didn’t fully grasp what she was saying — or maybe she did, and she was no different from all the others. — Still, they say terrible things about You. They lie…

— That’s where you’re wrong, — He interrupted. — If you ever hear something bad about Me — believe nearly every word. Because chances are, it’s true.

— You can’t be that bad.

— It depends on where you’re standing — and what rules you live by. I like who I am. But by their standards, I’m something monstrous.”

— That’s not true, — she whispered, timidly sliding His hand higher up her body. — You’re not like that.

— I won’t ruin your illusions, — He waved it off. — Sorry. I’m exhausted. I’ll sleep. You can stay up if you want — maybe on the computer… Just don’t open the photo folder,” He added, half-asleep. — That’s… not for you. Not yet.

***

Morning didn’t go well from the start. He hadn’t slept. She, on the other hand, woke craving affection and warmth. His head throbbed; hers clearly longed for something else.

— Not now, — He snapped, brushing her hand away and getting out of bed.

A cold shower brought Him back to something resembling life. For a moment, He even forgot He wasn’t alone in the apartment. But when He stepped out of the bathroom and saw Alya still there — it all came rushing back.

He hated mornings.

He hated the sunlight that broke through the gaps in the curtains.

He hated the necessity of getting dressed and going to work.

He hated the sluggishness, that post-night lethargy, when His energy level dipped below survival.

And most of all, He hated waking up next to someone from the night before — someone He already wanted gone. Naturally, this couldn’t help but affect Alya.

— What’s wrong? — she whispered, sinking into the mattress, pulling the blanket nearly up to her eyes.

— Everything’s fine, — He muttered, collecting His scattered clothes. — Forty minutes till I leave. Bathroom’s free. You’ll figure it out. I’ll make coffee. — He didn’t even glance at her, jaw tight.

“Okay,” she said, slipping from under the blanket — naked, of course. He watched her — slim, almost boyish frame, narrow hips, small shoulders, firm thighs, toned backside, and modest chest.

She didn’t linger in the shower, returning in under ten minutes — still bare, slightly shy.

“Why didn’t I… last night?” — flashed through His mind.

She dressed in the bedroom while He sat in the kitchen, already on His second cup of coffee.

— You look lovely, — He said, smiling for the first time. The caffeine and the shower had done their work — she no longer irritated Him.

— Thanks, — she replied, glancing sideways at Him. — Is that for me?

— Of course, — He handed her the cup. — Want a sandwich? I don’t eat in the mornings.

— No, thanks. Coffee’s enough.

— Sorry, — He said quietly, not looking up. — I’m unbearable in the mornings.

— That’s okay… — she sipped her coffee.

They went to work together. She tried to take His arm, but He freed Himself with a habitual motion — that small morning ritual of emotional distance He’d long since perfected.

5

Zhenya barely managed to squeeze into the subway car. He lived somewhere around Zhukov district, and during rush hour he had every chance of not fitting in at all, despite his thin build.

The crowd dragged him inside, pressed him against the opposite door, and left him there, floundering among the mass of overheated bodies rushing about their business.

What irritated him most, as usual, were the old ladies. Not that Zhenya disrespected them or felt any prejudice, but their sheer number during rush hour — when most people were hurrying to work — was discouraging. The grandmas rode just for the sake of riding, since their fares were discounted. They went to markets where cucumbers were twenty kopecks cheaper than near home; to recycling points where a beer bottle fetched a couple more coins. With their free rides and endless time, these trips gave them, besides a sense of being part of life — something they’d long since stopped feeling — also a small bit of extra income or savings, however meager.

One of them, a short, round figure resembling an overfilled beer keg — and smelling accordingly — kept rubbing against Zhenya with her bags and worn-out clothes. He grew tense, boiling inside, but his innate sense of politeness — like that of the well-mannered bunny from the old Soviet Winnie-the-Pooh cartoon — wouldn’t allow him to respond properly to the source of irritation.

The old woman, for her part, was just as nervous. Her bags, stuffed with bottles and plastic, were constantly being pushed, stepped on, or even kicked aside by those trying to get away from her as far as possible. She didn’t restrain her tongue, waving her hands, cursing everyone around, reminiscing about her hard life, praising the good old days of “developed socialism” — and with each such outburst, poor Zhenya caught the brunt of her fury.

“Excuse me, may I pass?” — he finally spotted a gap in the shifting crowd, which reshuffled at every stop. “I need to get through…”

— Go on, go on, — rasped the old lady back, needing to vent her frustration on someone, and it didn’t matter who that was — a student secretly kicking her bottles and laughing at the clinking sound, a tired office worker pushing his way to work, or just Zhenya, blocking her from leaning her massive behind against the doors that wouldn’t open until the very last station.

— And a lovely day to you too! — Zhenya snapped, squeezing past her, or rather, leaping over the heap of her precious goods.

— They breed idiots like rabbits! — she muttered after him. — No one bothers to raise them anymore. Back in my day… — she launched into the eternal story, familiar to every generation.

— Hey! — someone tugged on Zhenya’s trouser leg as he pushed away from the old woman, moving toward the center of the car.

— Hey, — he replied automatically, nearly missing the speaker. “Where’d you come from? — he asked, surprised.

— Going to work, — Alya smiled at him brightly, her girlish shyness only adding to her charm.

— So am I, — Zhenya tried to keep the conversation going. Where do you live?

— I was staying with friends, — she clarified. — So…

He was asleep. Just leaned his head back and, mouth slightly open, fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. The crowd moved around him — sometimes bumping his legs, sometimes sitting down or standing up nearby. Alya held onto his arm, but for Him, the world no longer existed. He slept, a faint rasp escaping his slightly parted lips.

— This is… — Zhenya was speechless, the smile fading from his face. — What’s He doing here? Also stayed over somewhere?

Alya blushed, let go of His arm, and turned red. Zhenya realized his slip, though the smile didn’t return. He wasn’t sure how to react. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen his friend with a woman. It wasn’t the first time they clung to Him — or He to them. Young or mature, naïve or worldly, He wasn’t particularly picky. Yet somehow, Zhenya had never imagined Him and Alya together. On the contrary…

— I see… — he managed to mutter, staring at Alya, glowing though visibly tired. “Well… when things go bad, you can come to me.” His tone darkened as he finished.

They spent the rest of the ride in silence, the three of them. Getting out of the subway wasn’t easy. He woke slowly, weighed down by exhaustion; consciousness returned reluctantly. Morning, the trip, and the sleep… beyond that, He simply didn’t exist.

After splashing some water on His face behind a lonely kiosk, He finally came to. He even tried to smile, extended a hand to Zhenya — but said nothing.

His workplace awaited, like a life ring floating on the surface — waiting for the drowning man who’d thrown it overboard himself before sinking the ship.

— You look terrible! — Karina breezed past, swaying her hips and teasing with her firm chest. — Plans for tonight? — She might’ve been joking — He wasn’t sure.

— Sleep with someone, — He replied heavily. — You, preferably… — His eyes were closing again. He wanted coffee, a woman, and sleep.

— Not likely, — she smirked.

— Pity, — He sighed without opening His eyes. — I was counting on you…

She walked away, hips swaying victoriously, sure she’d just scored a small but satisfying win. He, meanwhile, drifted into sleep again.

***

— Wake up! — rasped a familiar voice by His ear, and a not-so-gentle hand shook Him hard enough for His head to clear. — Wake up! — the hand repeated.

— All right, all right… — He brushed it off. — I’m fine.

He couldn’t stand Igor — not his worldview, not his comments, not his meticulousness, nor his eagerness to please everyone.

— Get up, — Igor said more evenly now. — We’re being called in.

They worked together — in a pair or maybe even in the same department — but in reality, they barely exchanged greetings. Their mutual frostiness had once even become a topic of discussion among colleagues and was brought to management’s attention. In front of their bosses, they smiled, shook hands, promised to “strengthen their cooperation” and whatever else — even swore on it, perhaps. But nothing changed afterward. He despised Igor; Igor returned the favor.

— What’s going on? — He asked, surprised. The sun had already made its way far across the sky, and its rays, filtering through the vertical blinds, fell directly onto His desk.

“How long have I been asleep?! — he thought in surprise. — Almost half past ten!”

It turned out he had slept for more than two hours. Slept right at his desk, and not a single bastard of a coworker had bothered to wake him! Or maybe someone had tried, but… either didn’t dare to push it or decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.

Whatever the case, it didn’t matter now — he needed to get up and move.

— What’s the question, anyway? What are we taking? — he shouted after Igor, who was already walking away. Igor turned around, mumbled something unintelligible, and continued down the hall.

The owner’s office was one floor up — a miniature golf course of a room, cooled by an air conditioner clearly designed for a real golf field. The chill that hit him as soon as he entered revived him better than a bucket of cold water.

— Permission to enter? — he said instead of a greeting.

They allowed him in. He sat down, sank into the chair, and fell into a gloomy anticipation — waiting for the moment when, once again, something would begin that would end with a headache, a sense of futility from all the wasted effort, and also…

— Hm… — The owner, sprawled in his seat, was watching him closely. He was clearly agitated, yet in no hurry to begin.

He could feel that gaze on him with his entire body. It was as if thousands of tiny electric discharges pierced his skin, driving through soft flesh and into his spine, jolting his tired nerves awake. He straightened, forcing himself to appear composed, though it was far from easy.

— We’re concerned about the condition of one of our employees, — the owner began delicately, never taking his eyes off him. “When he first came to us, he was a diligent young man — not fresh from the university, but still — that’s how he seemed. Over the years, he’s proven himself to be an excellent specialist, the kind any respectable company could be proud of. Thanks to him, we survived the worst of the crisis. His analytical abilities helped us build productive relationships with our partners in Southeast Asia, expand into Europe, and begin to penetrate both the African continent and the Arab world.

But alongside all this, at first imperceptibly, and with each year more openly, his other side began to surface. I’d even call it his second self — hidden beneath a thick layer of logic and rationality. His inner demons have started to take control. We hoped his marriage to a wonderful young woman would resolve this issue and that he’d finally settle down, but after a short time together, he… they separated. And since then, as it turns out, he’s become impossible to restrain.”

The owner continued speaking in the third person, but He, of course, already understood what this was about — and who was under scrutiny. Department heads, directors, and even several specialists — among them, unfortunately, was Katerina — about twenty people in all, sat around the table, fiddling with pens and crumpling papers, yet never taking their eyes off Him. He felt like he’d been impaled on a stake for public display, pinned in place by the owner’s gaze.

— Our security service even conducted an inquiry. It appears that his recent behavior is nothing but a relapse. At least, that’s how I’d prefer to see it — a relapse of his past. A relapse of the lifestyle this young man and fine employee once led during his reckless student years.

Alas, those student years were long gone — along with much of his health, his unfulfilled dreams, his lost place in life, and the unrealized genius of logic and mathematics. A relapse? No! he wanted to shout. The duality — or rather, the multifaceted nature of his personality — had always been there, for as long as he could remember. What the owner now called a relapse was nothing more than another side of his nature taking over, while the logical, rational one had gone on strike and abandoned its post.

— Excessive drinking, indulgence with women, police detentions after several drunken brawls and acts of hooliganism, sleeping on the job — we turned a blind eye to all of it. At least, for a while. Until it started to affect his performance.

“Ah, so that’s where this is going…” he exhaled quietly, already trying to predict whether they were planning to reform him — or just fire him outright. It seemed, for now, they weren’t planning the latter.

— Given this employee’s past achievements, dedication, and potential, -” the owner continued, boring into him with his stare, “I believe we should give our colleague — who has momentarily lost his way — a second chance. I think each of us should find the strength to take part in his fate and help save a valuable specialist and a good man.”

He was clearly overdoing it now. The people around the table barely managed to conceal their expressions of surprise and disgust. But since all eyes were fixed on Him, only He could see their twisted faces — their silent, involuntary rejection of the owner’s lofty appeal remained a revelation known only to Him.

— In Soviet times, in such cases, an employee would be placed under someone’s personal supervision,” the owner said with a faint smirk. — I’d like something similar to be introduced here as well. What do you think? — he turned to HR.

She immediately jumped up, adjusting her oversized glasses with a thin, nervous hand, and launched into a nauseatingly sweet speech filled with corporate clichés: teamwork, team spirit, the shoulder of a comrade, professional growth, mutual assistance, and striving for collective success. Even the owner wrinkled his nose at the syrupy tone, but still managed to praise her before continuing:

— Excellent! — he said cheerfully. — I’m glad my proposal has found support among the team. Therefore, I propose that the mentors — let’s call them that — be chosen from among his closest colleagues and, I’m sure, friends of our misguided soul.”

His gaze swept over the room. Half the people immediately shrank into their seats, as if trying to disappear.

— I believe the best candidates for this role will be Igor and Karina.

It was not just a thunderclap — it was a sentence! He nearly jumped to his feet, ready to deliver a counter-speech — to expose, to remind, to throw back everything that had built up over the years. To recall the endless business trips that had ruined his marriage… But then — he couldn’t. He found no strength left in him, not even enough to stand up, let alone make some dramatic statement.

Igor and Karina, for their part, looked equally unenthusiastic about taking responsibility for him. But they kept silent, biting their lips.

— Splendid, then, — the owner said. — To conclude our meeting, I’d like to hear from the man himself — what does he think about all this?

— He thinks… — the words slipped out before He could stop them. Then, catching himself, He added vaguely, “He thinks everything will be fine.”

— Excellent! — the owner exclaimed, rising to his feet and signaling the end of what could hardly even be called a meeting. — You may all return to your work.

6

He had spent the night wonderfully. At least, he hadn’t felt such a sense of relief and joy in the morning for a long time.

Sleep had consumed him entirely as soon as he reached his home. The second half of the day had passed under the sidelong glances of coworkers, which he paid little attention to, amid the periodic, feigned-motherly, and therefore ironic — even mockingly caring — attentions of Karina. She appeared at his workspace with enviable regularity, placed her hands on his shoulders, delivered moralizing speeches, chuckled as she did so, promised to “make a man” out of him, and always deftly avoided any attempts at physical contact. For her, it was a game — amusing for the moment, the rules of which she had not yet fully grasped.

— Karina, darling,” he pleaded, rubbing his eyes, — let’s talk tomorrow. I’m… right now…

— But how can it be tomorrow, my dear! — she exclaimed, raising her arms until she seemed as tall as the Eiffel Tower (or at least that’s how she looked at the moment), sighing, and continuing. — Promises to start a new life tomorrow — that’s your favorite phrase! — she reminded him. — You even promised to marry me once. Starting Monday, of course, but for now…

He didn’t recall that, but he wouldn’t have ruled it out — one says many things when inebriated, especially when trying to coax certain concessions from a lady.

— All right, then, let’s start now! But leave me alone. I’m sobering up and trying to put my life back on track… — he waved her off.

But alas, Karina reveled in the situation. She was inspired by the opportunity to respond to her offender — secretly entrusted to her for re-education — who she now considered dependent on her.

— Darling, — she whispered breathlessly into his ear, — if you want everything to go well between us, and for our owner to stop worrying about you, you need to keep me informed of your movements…

— I’d better just move in with you and live by the fridge! — he retorted, rubbing his head.

— Absolutely!’ she moaned into his ear, feigning intimacy and adding a touch of sarcasm. ‘I’ll put you right by it. A little rug!

— That would be perfect! — he nodded, seeing her reflection in the monitor. — Exactly the life I dreamed of. Carefree, warm, with access to food and… company.

— But here, darling, you’ll have to earn it! — she whispered, stroking his head. — That comes first.

— I’ll serve! — he declared. — Like a guard dog! Just feed me, water me, don’t take the rug, and arrange the spring… um, sessions.

— You’re such a boor! — she playfully slapped his cheek. — Honestly, what was I expecting?!

— I can’t help myself in the presence of someone so charming, and sometimes available, — he grimaced, but restrained himself from raising a hand to his face.

Getting rid of Karina proved nearly impossible, and only the men’s restroom — a faithful friend, with a toilet and tiled wall — allowed him to spend the remainder of the workday in relative peace. In fact, he had already started sleeping there, and would continue at home.

He was awakened by the slamming of doors. The workday was ending, and employees were preparing to leave.

In the corridor, just outside the doors, Aly waited. She simply stood against the wall, not moving. It seemed no one noticed her, and she made an effort to remain inconspicuous.

— Hi! — she smiled as soon as he appeared in the doorway.

***

They slept together. But separately. He, without even undressing, collapsed onto the bed and instantly fell asleep. She, sighing at the day’s burdens, went to the shower.

The night was arduous. Unlike the previous one. Even slightly inebriated, he had slept much better before.

All night he dreamed vivid, intense dreams full of anxiety and hidden danger. At times he would fall to the bottom of a deep ravine, landing in the grass that clutched at him and refused to let go. Breaking free from its grasp, he would awaken briefly, sensing something pulling away from him. He would see Aly, close his eyes again. The ravine never disappeared, and its sheer walls prevented further movement. Yet somehow he knew he had to go upward — not sideways, not downward, but straight up, toward the stars and moonlight spreading across the endless steppe above. He climbed, strained with all his body, fell, struggled, and kept pressing upward, tossing aside obstacles and continuing the ascent.

The climb seemed endless and unbearably difficult. Going up was far more challenging than the free fall into the abyss, where a crushing blow awaited him at the bottom. But he rallied, survival instincts urging him to leave the bottom of the ravine, or else… or else he could not even imagine. Beneath him, where he had just lain, a mudslide roared past, sweeping away everything in its path — the road downward was gone. Had he stayed there, listening to the coaxing of his darker self, he would now be buried under mud, sand, and stones.

Yet he pressed on, every second of delay costing him precious strength he barely had. Weakness, fatigue, and dizziness washed over him. Each upward movement became more difficult. Every blade of grass, every stone, every crack became a lifeline to carry him farther from the ravine.

Sweat stung his eyes; his shirt clung as a single wet lump. The wind tried to peel him off the vertical wall, sand and stones rained from above, mixing with his sweat into an abrasive paste against his back.

But he moved, exerting more effort than he thought he had ever used in his life. Each centimeter, each ledge, every detail was imprinted in his consciousness. He had long since lost the boundary between dream and reality. Everything was real — so real he marveled at the richness of the colors, their saturation, the meticulous detail. He felt it must be a dream but refused to believe it; to believe would make all his struggle futile.

The wall gradually yielded, letting him upward, where more streams had yet to fall, transforming the once-pleasant grass into an inhospitable environment. The upper edge was uneven, littered with loose fragments, fragile roots of distant grass he could barely reach. And then he realized the climb itself was not the hardest part. A more difficult and exhausting task awaited — to transition from the sheer vertical wall to the horizontal, grass-covered plateau.

He stretched with all his might, his wet shirt sliding along the surface, slipping repeatedly, never fully securing himself. Above, the moon shone, stars glittered, night insects buzzed, and in his hands once again, a tuft of grass torn during a previous attempt.

Dream and reality blended, and he felt warmth spreading across his back, someone’s hands, hot breath on his neck. Reality receded, returning him to dream.

He did not remember how he reached the top. He simply lay on his back, breathing heavily, while the same stars and the Milky Way — here called the Chumak Way — beckoned him onward. Exhaustion left him unable to rise; his last strength had gone into climbing and struggling against the ravine’s edge. But he was at the top! Below, the ravine murmured once more, and he was glad not to be there. Everything was fine. He rolled onto his side. His hands ached, torn nails bled, his scratched back itched from sand, but he was saved — and he saw the goal he had climbed for.

In the middle of the boundless steppe, bathed in moonlight, stood a house. The house of his dreams! Two stories of wood and glass, a sloped roof with elegant ridges, full-glass doors revealing comfort and peace inside. The house stood alone, with no fences, garden, or single tree to spoil the view. There was no road leading to it.

He rose, full of joy, realizing that the house was as far away as the climb had been. And he was ready to make this journey too. But… the alarm clock pierced the dream. Its shrill, mechanical ticking from some cheap Chinese device could torment anyone, and instantly the vision blurred. The idyllic scene collapsed — the field turned into a scarred, pest-ridden wasteland, and the house became a pile of ruins, moss-covered and inhabited by far more sinister creatures.

Waking was unpleasant. He felt as if struck by a massive hammer. Indeed, the shirt he had not removed yesterday clung in a soaked lump to his body. Sweat had left stains on the sheets. He struggled to stand, shaking, almost falling. From the far corner of the bed — apparently, in a panic — Aly watched him with her girl’s eyes.

He felt ashamed and got to his feet, staggering. Exhausted from last night, from sleep, he wanted only one thing: to get rid of her, take a shower, and collapse into bed — preferably with a plump neighbor who cooked excellent borscht, demanded no elaborate courtesies, and was ideal for such moments.

But ahead lay a difficult day. Difficult, if only because… he could not find the words.

***

If we speak of the states by which He characterized each morning, filtered through the lens of His current mood and perception of reality, then the morning was uncertain. Sunlight barely broke through the heavy clouds that densely covered the sky, and rare gusts of wind stirred not just the leaves, threatening to take down branches as well. Pedestrians, wrapped in coats and jackets inappropriate for the season, hurried along their way, eager to escape the inhospitable street and get home as quickly as possible.

The weather had gone out of season. He looked out the window, though without any interest, and took a sip of coffee. The coffee burned His throat and fell in a lump down His esophagus. But even that did not trouble Him. Sleep had left an indelible impression on Him and, surprisingly, had not dissipated with the arrival of the morning.

Not being by nature a believer in prophetic beginnings, He nonetheless did not deny the brain’s ability to work at night, to some extent even autonomously, analyzing certain input data that had been fed into it earlier. “Perhaps this means something!” — one of the few formed thoughts of the morning burst through, and He was surprised that it, like the dream, had appeared on its own, independently of Him.

The truth was, He liked the way He lived. Not that everything was perfect, but it wasn’t all bad. Alcohol dulled the sense of social dissatisfaction, drug intoxication loosened His hands, releasing His nature outward, and circumstances did the rest for Him. He drank, indulged, enjoyed female company, wandered through shady places, occasionally got into trouble and somehow got out of it — but to radically change His life? That was not even a thought.

“The laws of human coexistence, the ethical and legal aspects — all of this restricts human freedom for one thing only: the survival of society!” — spun through His mind. Indeed, the norms of behavior, invented or given, as church adepts believed, were intended to restrain the masses within certain boundaries, controlling them on a micro level, at the level of the individual. Once consciously devised, over millennia these norms were so deeply installed in the consciousness of each individual that they must have been transmitted on a genetic level. These long-established restrictions served the common good, saving the majority from unbalanced individuals.

Ethical norms regulated upbringing and behavior, while legal norms protected society from the abuse of those who disregarded ethics…

Surely, everyone had moments of “enlightenment” in life, when blood boiled with surprise and rage, because the one who acted wrongly, breaking established rules, violating the law or ethical norms, came out ahead. Those who strictly followed the rules always lost in such situations. The point, however, was that all these norms, created for the survival of society as a whole, significantly restricted each individual. And anyone who, for one reason or another, broke free from these, so to speak, shackles, was immediately perceived as a disturber of peace and a danger to society. Such people were fought against — by all permissible means, including radical ones.

But what about those who, in their very essence, feel the artificiality of the system, for whom the hypocrisy of others is worse than losing their own face, who hate falseness and the norms that force them into mundane mediocrity? What should such people do?! What are they to do in a society that fundamentally does not accept outcasts, individualists, people unlike themselves? A society that hates the success of others, masking it with hypocritical admiration, behind which lies a distorted face of bitter hatred, malice, and envy?! What should rebels do in a society where rebels and extraordinary individuals have been exterminated for centuries? The answer is one — drink oneself into oblivion…

Drink oneself into oblivion. Escape this way from a reality that does not allow any other form of protest, any other way to express oneself, to become something far more valuable than a mere “cog in the machine”!! !

He had not always been like this. For much of His life, He remembered being a diligent boy, unquestioningly following the instructions of His elders. The elders spoke, guided, and shaped His consciousness, and He trusted them, believing that they would not deceive Him. And now, reaching the age of those to whom He had once submitted, He bitterly realized that He had been manipulated, forced to do what was advantageous to the adults, who had no concern for His growth, development, or ability to handle problems.

Thoughts rushed through His mind like a murky river, reality passed Him by, cold wind stung and made Him shiver, His body lived its own life, struggling for survival, while His mind carried Him into the past, to the first time He felt disappointment, because a girl — still a schoolgirl — had acted differently than He had expected.

Naive and trusting — He wondered how He had survived like this until the ninth grade — He entered puberty, when underlying thoughts and hormonal changes demanded something that adults had never discussed with Him, friends only laughed, sharing naïve tales, while the girls matured and filled out, provoking, for some reason, feelings He was taught to be ashamed of in advance.

The descent into the metro didn’t take long. Alya obediently trailed behind, even fearing to come close to Him. In this state, He appeared to her for the first time — gloomy, sharp, immersed in Himself, a complete contrast to the eternally ironic, hangover-suffering character who had caught her attention almost from day one. She followed Him closely, and inexplicable sensations filled her, fire spreading through her body…

He felt roughly the same emotions and fire when, one day — either after the autumn ball or some other school event — He found himself alone with… He remembered her in detail. He remembered that provocatively lifted skirt trimmed with blue lace at the hem, the gray blouse that clung to her partially formed feminine figure, the smell of alcohol she had consumed, and the enormous gray eyes burning with fire. He remembered everything — except her name…

She kissed Him first. Simply took His head in her hands and pressed her lips to His. He was stunned, confused, unsure what to do next. Disobedient hands reached somewhere, tugged at something, stroked… He lost his head, and when He regained it, He stood in the same dark alley, catching the lingering scent of alcohol she had drunk. But He stood alone. She had disappeared, leaving Him there by Himself. Then He spent the entire evening searching for her. It seemed to Him that any moment now, just around the corner, He would catch up with her cheerful laughter. But when He arrived, there was only emptiness, and only that faint, elusive laugh guided the path of pursuit. He felt she was teasing Him, perhaps even mocking Him, constantly slipping away, forcing Him to chase and catch up. But alas, she didn’t care about Him. Toward the very end of the evening, He finally caught up with the same laughter, and was struck to the ground by the sight when one of His friends… No, for Him, it was a harsh sight and a shattering of all hopes. For the past year or so, He had lived for her, caught her gaze, gathered information, and dreamed… He felt that if she did not know of His infatuation, she must have suspected it, which made the final moment in the dark corner of the evening school, for which He, incidentally, was unprepared, even more painful.

For a while longer, He lived for her, bitterness, hatred, jealousy, and self-contempt overwhelming Him, especially when she, mocking Him, kissed one boy, then another, right in class… It hurt… It hurt to see her and to hear from friends the retellings of their fleeting encounters, in many cases true, but not without embellishments.

Not that He became a laughingstock. No. He was teased, as, in fact, all adolescents reaching puberty try to express themselves, sometimes at the expense of humiliating others. But the realization that He was unprepared for this turn of events, and the fact that rule-breakers always won — was a revelation for Him, significantly reshaping His world.

Something arose within Him that wanted to protest, but had no right to protest. The fracturing of a unified personality happened instantly and unnoticed by others. Inner demons took over in the “otherworldly” life, reaching an agreement to divide existence into two separate camps.

In the metro, Alya sat down, wanting to lean against Him, but the expression on His face — detached, gloomy, aggressively distant — stopped her impulse. She stood beside Him, maintaining a polite distance.

The strength of His upbringing was such that even the realization of the world’s complexity and the inadequacy of many of the postulates implanted in His mind could not break through the granite of social responsibility and cultural behavior. And under this slab, pressing down with its full weight, developed that which contradicted the norms of society and the moral-ethical principles instilled in Him.

Sooner or later, the second self had to make itself known. And with the onset of his university years, having largely freed himself from parental oversight, the second self surged to the surface, leaving the slab of decency untouched. Emerging mostly at night, his second self demanded unchecked indulgence: alcohol, female company, brawls, and other improprieties. At night, he could drag a prostitute by the hair, one who had tried to snatch his last ten-dollar bill, thinking him asleep, only to find out the next morning that the woman he had taken somewhere near the Gosprom was actually a classmate from his course, now looking at him with fear and hatred, hungover. During the day, he would sincerely apologize, saying he didn’t even understand how it had happened, offering her coffee and cookies, spending even more than that ten-dollar bill — warm feelings already beginning to swell within him, regardless of who she was or what she did, only to, that same evening, with indescribable fury, torment her body again — though this time without physical abuse or hair-pulling.

In fact, she became his first steady girlfriend — the very one to whom he was polite and attentive during the day, while his second self demanded something entirely different at night. It suited him, and it suited her… Neither of them minded that he had other partners, who even claimed more than casual relationships, just as she had clients who kept her for extended periods…

He recalled that period many times and considered it perhaps the happiest time of his life. His second self allowed him to be what he could not be in society. The amorality of the situation, the disregard for norms and rules, the ability to express protest in this way — while maintaining overall decency and even compassion toward others in a society that revered accepted codes of conduct — allowed him to live a life of complete satisfaction.

He understood perfectly well those who, after a day of labor, having accumulated disgust and negativity, sought to balance it with nightlife, gambling, debauchery with prostitutes, or shooting in the Forest Park. But for them, it was only an outlet, a temporary release; for him, it was a lifestyle, a way of life.

By day, he was an ideal, or close to one; by night, slipping away from yet another lover unwilling to accept him as he was, he retreated into a world where entirely different people and sensations awaited him.

Everything collapsed when she was gone! What happened remained a mystery to him even now, but she was found somewhere near the Sumskyi Market. A car had run over her — first in one direction, then back. What was it? An intentional hit? An accident? Punishment for disobedience or revenge from a jealous person?! It all remained a secret. And for him, everything ended right there.

The golden age didn’t even vanish — it simply ceased, like a movie abruptly cutting off in a theater when the electricity goes out. One moment, everything is there, the audience fully immersed in what is happening, and the next — darkness. Darkness, confusion, bewilderment, first replaced by fear, then by hatred.

It was another turning point, one he endured far more painfully than any before.

— We’re almost there! — he suddenly snapped out of his stupor, becoming a living person again. — Alya, you were dozing off!

Alya was indeed dozing, practically asleep while standing, leaning her back against the door.

— Huh? What? — she stirred. She had barely slept the previous night, while he struggled against the steep slope, overcoming it even in his dreams. Her sleep had been fitful at best, and it was no wonder that exhaustion had taken hold by morning, in the metro.

— Our stop… — he said, referring to the metro station.

— Oh! Yes! Right! — she moved toward the exit.

***

“Perhaps it really was a prophetic dream!” flashed through his mind the moment he stepped over the threshold at work.

“If it was prophetic, then add that it was a dream that came at the right time!” — came the second thought.

“Then it’s time to get serious! — a slight sardonic voice chimed in, adding to what had already been said. — Otherwise, the next prophetic one might be about soggy land, or a striped pajama… or even yellow walls and big, kind uncles in white coats.”

“Well, thoughts just keep climbing into your head!” — several voices immediately spoke in unison in his mind

— Drinking again? — Karina grimaced as soon as she saw him at the office doorway.

— No, — he replied, quite seriously.

— But you look like you should be… — she measured Aly with a gaze full of disdain. “You look awful.”

— I don’t have the strength to argue with you, — he agreed, and there was not a hint of irony in his words. — And I feel exactly the same.

— It’s high time you got your act together, darling! You’re no boy to be drinking vodka by the liter and hopping from one woman to another.”

— You speak the truth! — he nodded. — It seems I’ve come to the same conclusion…

— Then I’m glad for you, — she smiled indulgently. — If that’s the case, you can count on my support.

“I’d be glad to get an extended support package!” he almost joked, in the style that had become normal for his second self.

— Thanks for the help, dear, — Karina said, turning her full height toward Alina. — Much appreciated. I’ll take it hand to hand. — She smiled predatorily.

Alia mumbled something and hurriedly retreated, feeling increasingly out of place since the previous evening.

She disappeared so quickly that he didn’t even notice it happen. Though, honestly, he had no time for her right now, just as he had had none during all the time Alia remained in her state of uncertainty.

— Well then, darling, — Karina said, putting all the sarcasm she could muster into that one word. — Allow me to take care of you. — She brushed an imaginary strand of hair from his shoulder.

He closed his eyes, slumping into his chair, letting the events carry him along freely for a while. Karina fussed nearby, either genuinely concerned about his state or simply enjoying her little revenge. He didn’t resist; melancholy had completely overtaken him.

— Would you care for some tea, sir? — she joked. He accepted, and the light giggling of Karina’s friends didn’t bother him at all.

In his mind, the dream mixed with scattered memories from the past, including ones where Karina appeared, half-naked and…

The tea, alas, was not sweet. Not nearly as sweet as he was used to. Previously, Karina had never erred with the sugar, knowing his tastes perfectly. But now… “Doesn’t matter…” he waved it off, continuing to pour the hot liquid into himself without even tasting it.

— How’s our ladies’ man? — suddenly appeared Igor on the horizon, and immediately a fist, obeying an instantaneous impulse, lunged at him. Igor managed to dodge, stepping aside, and froze in confusion. What had happened seemed unexpected for him, and, as it appeared to him, Igor was simply unprepared to deal with things physically — not now, and in principle. A sissy boy, the kind he once had been, but who had been saved by a turning point in life — unfortunately for Igor…

He hated Igor. Hated him on a subconscious level, the kind of hatred one feels for someone simply for existing. Igor embodied that individual who could be an excellent specialist yet a complete scoundrel when it came to human relations. Something deep within him drove him not only to act but to think, to be an extension of his inner complexes, expressing protest through petty mischief, gossip, and open envy, and therefore hatred, of almost everyone around him.

He looked at Igor, at his dazed eyes, at his adrenaline-shaking hands, which he didn’t even dare to raise, and it hit him! He saw himself. Himself, and no one else. The self he could have become if, at a certain moment, his second nature hadn’t taken over, if his friend, who could not imagine herself without her old profession, hadn’t significantly altered his worldview, and, perhaps, if later nothing had happened to her… He would most likely have grown out of the sissy-boy phase while still keeping those pants carefully tucked deep in his subconscious. Igor was unlucky. At least, that’s how it seemed to him now. And if he was right about Igor, then Igor also lived a double life, hiding the vulnerability of his nature from outsiders, protecting it in ways that avoided direct confrontation, because any head-on collision would be fatal for him.

He hated Igor, and now he thought he understood why! Because Igor was himself — the modification he could have become but didn’t. Whether fortunately or toward self-destruction — he couldn’t say.

Igor was a classic case of a grown-up infant, the type that today’s society produces in unbelievable numbers. Produced in such numbers that they’ve become the norm. An infantile creature, trying with all its might to hide it and reacting painfully to any attempt to expose it.

— I, uh… — he tried to apologize, but the words disappeared. This happened sometimes when his speech center refused to work in sync with his thought process. Thoughts formed images; he was even ready to give a speech, but…

— It’s nothing, — Igor waved it off and smiled. — Withdrawal from alcoholism… it’s…

And he hated him again! Igor would have been better off keeping silent, but instead, stepping a decent distance away, he excused him with words and gestures that previously would have made him immediately grab a pipe.

He tried to pull himself together and focus on the cup of tea, then on work, then on Karina’s figure — but Igor wouldn’t leave his mind. In his current state, it would have been better if Igor hadn’t come to work at all. At least for a week.

Once again, he sank into the memory of his dream. There was something in it that refused to let him go. Everything was so symbolic that it seemed like an artificial, deliberate veil meant to cover something else. And again, something slipped away from him.

— What’s gnawing at you, darling? — Karina sweetly, teasingly, approached him once again. All morning she had circled around him like a shark, ready to strike but not yet finding her prey vulnerable enough, wearing it down in the process.

— I can’t even understand it myself, — he said, not even attempting to joke.

— It’s alright, everything will be fine, — she replied, still triumphant. — We have no other choice, my dear! Since we’ve taken you on…

That’s how the first half of the day passed. Alia appeared a couple of times, under obviously fabricated pretexts, but seeing Kristina, she dared not approach. He noted her presence once or twice, but honestly, he had no time for her — or anyone else, really.

After lunch, he found the strength to get up and walk a bit. The smoking area held no appeal, and wandering the yard in the unpredictable weather — sudden rain, perhaps — was not tempting, so his feet naturally carried him to Zheka.

Zheka was brewing something in his pots, stirring his concoctions occasionally with a handheld food mixer. He didn’t notice the arrival, so he had time to lean against the door frame and watch the chemist’s curious experiments, clearly over-absorbed in his craft.

— What’s up? — he caught Zheka when the latter turned away from his brew. Zheka jumped, the mixer clattering to the floor, and he flinched.

— Cooking a potion? — he smirked.

— You are the potion, — Zheka exploded. — Why did you come here? I’ve got nothing to cure your hangover — nothing left. And there won’t be anymore. Go to… — He left the sentence unfinished and walked away.

— Well, that happens sometimes, — he admitted to himself. — Not once, not twice… and not just that.

“He’ll blow off steam and come to his senses!” he smirked. For some reason, it seemed to him that in his previous state, the world had been somehow brighter. Now, though, that grayness he had lived with for so many years, the grayness that had molded him into a model member of society, was pressing down on him. But it seemed there was no other way, because a complete opposition to that very society would inevitably have led to ostracism and exile to the margins of life.

“The margins? Bah — what margins?” he spoke to himself. “Here…” — he didn’t get to finish; Karina interrupted him.

— I was looking for you, — she said, without irony or a trace of revenge. “I wanted to talk to you.”

— And why wouldn’t I converse with a beautiful lady? — he answered melancholically, accepting.

— Well then…

She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and exhaled the smoke slowly, though nervously. The smoking room was empty and damp.

“Must be a dozen heads peeking secretly from every window right now,” he thought, and glanced around. Perhaps they were heads, quickly disappearing into the gray office space, or perhaps it was just his imagination.

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “Let them look.” Then he turned back to Karina.

— I’m entirely at your disposal, Karina.

She took a couple more drags, still hesitating to start the conversation, and he decided to help her.

— You know, Karina, I had a very strange dream last night… — he began.

— I’ve been thinking all along why things didn’t work out between us!” she said, clearly not hearing him. “I couldn’t find my place, trying everything on myself, looking for the reason within me. I don’t know…” She lowered her gaze. “So what’s the matter? Maybe we’re just different people? Maybe we don’t fit together?”

— It was my dream, — he said, somehow getting angry. — Very strange… I dreamed I fell into an abyss and reached the bottom…

— I didn’t even sleep at night, going over everything in my head, remembering, looking for reasons… I was furious…”

— I ended up in the embrace of something that wouldn’t let me go, held me, and you know, it felt good there, — he said. He could hear everything she was saying. She wanted to pour out her soul, to confess, and as often happens in such cases, the response didn’t matter anymore. Only shared experience mattered, nothing more.

— You know, I even wanted to poison you! — she admitted. — Not to death, but enough to make you suffer…

— Something made me rise, pull away from that grass, or whatever it was, and pushed me upward, along the sheer slope. And I still can’t understand what it was,” he said quietly, watching her closely.

— I even prepared a mix of pills. But you just didn’t show up that day, — she said into the void. — You probably went drinking somewhere.

— And then at the very top, when I reached the open surface, I saw a house. And it seemed to me that it was worth everything I had struggled for, climbed for… But that last second… — he trailed off uncertainly.

“Or you got tangled up with another girl in bed. That day I was so mad at you. And had you been in my hands then, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Maybe even strangled you,” she said. He understood that this wasn’t something said lightly. It was a confession, and he let go of his story about the dream — which, anyway, she didn’t want to hear — and listened to her intently.

They stood outside for another forty minutes. He abandoned any attempt to say even a few words, only occasionally nodding or touching Karina’s shoulder as if to say, “Don’t worry, everything in your life will work out.” At that moment, there was something in her that broke the ice of estrangement, and he melted, becoming pliable like wax or clay. Her words, even if she didn’t realize it, were molding him into something he had always feared. She wanted — he agreed! She suggested — he didn’t object! She said something else — he no longer cared, because somewhere deep inside, someone so similar to his past self made a decision and presented it as a fact, which he, in turn, accepted without resistance. Or almost accepted, with a few minor reservations.

— Let’s go to your place today, — he suggested. — Tea, pancakes, and everything else, just like before!

She nodded, cried, and fell on his shoulder. The blinds on the windows, which had barely moved before, suddenly became a restless sea as waves leapt upward under the gusting wind. There were more than enough onlookers to witness this touching melodrama scene…

***

— Congratulations! — Igor’s smile greeted him in the corridor. Karina slipped into the office, her steps full of joy and pride in herself.

Igor may have been happy for them, but it would have been better if he’d stayed silent. Better still, he should have wiped the smile off his idiotic face, which, at that moment, he seemed to him, and gone away.

Adrenaline surged through him, flooding his vision with a red light. His fists clenched instinctively into the necessary stance, and Igor should have hurried to order a wake… But then someone appeared in the corridor himself! He saw him with Igor, was horrified, forced a smile, and saved Igor.

— Congratulations! — he said, apparently already aware. — I have a couple of questions for you. — He dragged him into the office.

7

Karina was softly snoring, her nose buried in the pillow. The clock hands had long since passed midnight, yet he somehow couldn’t sleep. He lay there, mentally counting the swirls on the ceiling wallpaper. Thoughts swirled in his head, refusing to focus on anything in particular. The touch of the girl’s bare thigh — he felt the warmth and firmness of her skin.

“Hot woman!” — as his childhood friend Vitalik would have said. “Though a bit on the stocky side…” He was always amazed at the abundance of stereotypes in male-female interactions. For example, why must a woman always be slender and smaller than her partner? There were plenty of explanations, some even tracing back to the subconscious, formed during the primitive stages of human existence. But still — why? Why can’t a woman be larger?

“No, there’s charm in petite and skinny girls,” he reasoned. “They’re convenient in bed. Convenient purely from an ergonomic perspective. You don’t need to be a wrestler or weightlifter to… And there’s more “degrees of freedom’ with them, to borrow the engineers’ language. Seems comfortable!”

“But on the other hand,” he countered himself. “On the other hand, you have curves no tiny skinny girl can match! And if it’s not smothered in excess fat, it undoubtedly compensates for any weight inconvenience and reduction of your ‘degrees of freedom.’”

Once he had come across an article — just glanced through it, because he remembered little from reading it — probably drunk or hungover — about Jesuits. It covered many topics, he supposed, but only one episode stuck in his memory: how the Jesuits were taught the art of debate. A problem was posed: one had to prove it, the other disprove it. And it had to be a real victory. When one side lost, they switched positions. Now the one who had been proving had to argue against it. Thus, the debaters had the chance to see a situation from multiple perspectives and avoid biased thinking. Naturally, they also learned to defend a point of view, even if it was completely wrong.

“I’m like a Jesuit,” he smirked, gazing at Karina’s sleeping back. “I justify, then refute what society accepts as a postulate. For example, a girl should be smaller than her man! And if it’s the other way around?” His thoughts flew through his head. He hadn’t drunk in a while, and the urge for alcohol was beginning to remind him of itself. His body was craving it, and, as usual in such moments, demanding the continuation of the species. “Nothing personal — just physiology!” he mentally laughed, planning to take advantage of the opportunity once again. “It’s either alcohol or a woman!”

“Better both at once!” — responded the demon lurking deep inside.

***

An hour and a half later, he was sitting in the kitchen — her kitchen — and the hot coffee burned his throat. The night lamp created a sense of intimacy, the full moon and dazzling stars kept passersby away, leaving the bustle subdued even there.

Karina slept sweetly in the next room, exhausted yet happy. That was how he had left her, finally realizing that sleep would not come for him tonight, and, so as not to trouble either himself or his colleague — for some reason he now thought of her as a colleague — he moved to the kitchen.

Karina was a striking and enchanting woman. Her height and proportionate curves were both her advantage and her curse. She stood out from the crowd of women, if only because she naturally stood out due to her height, but she wasn’t considered a model. A pity. She wasn’t a tiny half-hundredweight girl with a bland face, punishing herself with exhausting diets like all the models, who looked elegant but ultimately sickly and unnatural.

She had more than enough admirers, but their interest was limited to her physiological traits, which they exploited, each creating a new wound as best they could.

She could have married several times, but something in her suitors was off. Either a migrant worker from the Caucasus, a village alcoholic, or a pretentious insurance manager who only loved himself and needed someone as an object of his contemplation. They all hurt her, shaping her into a woman with a sharp instinct for self-preservation and disdain for men.

He, alas, was no exception. And he knew it well. The inner demons in his consciousness danced around the chair that could hold only one — the one who would rule the roost at that moment.

Now, there sat a gloomy, sentimental little devil, seeing only the negative, craving warmth and compassion — which is why he immediately felt tender feelings for Karina. He wanted to get up and join her in bed, but coffee, fatigue… how many times would that be tonight?

“No! — he stopped himself. Not now!”

***

Morning caught him in the kitchen. A strong feminine hand rested on his shoulder, and he instantly startled. The sun was just rising. He wanted to sleep badly. Karina stood there in pajamas over her bare body, her hair falling in rebellious strands across her face.

“Women look completely different in the morning!” — he caught himself thinking again. “Evening adds a charm of mystery and makes them desirable… but in the morning, they transform.” The enchanting spell fell away, and they became those beings who often hated mornings, disliked work, and despised the one who had climbed into their bed yesterday. He had long grown used to it, so the morning detachment of most of his partners was normal. But there were exceptions — those who, in the morning, turned into soft, ivy-like creatures, rejoicing in the new day and greeting him with pink cheeks and a smile that lit up their eyes. Most of the time, he didn’t understand such women, and therefore was cautious, although there were exceptions, for example:

— Good morning, darling, — Karina nearly sang. — Why are you here?

He didn’t know what to answer. He stayed silent, failing to react to her transformation. In the morning, she was always like this, and, to be honest, it unsettled him greatly. The morning softness and kindness she radiated each time clashed sharply with the persona she would slip into just a few hours later, grinding everyone down who dared to cross her path.

There was still time. She radiated warmth and desire, and the outstretched hand demanded a response — one that allowed for only a single answer. He didn’t dare refuse her, despite the sleepiness and the pleas of his weary body, which had already endured this routine four times tonight.

***

“Interesting thing — human consciousness!” he thought, covering the distance that now separated him from his workplace. “If you look closely, each of us carries a dozen independent personalities within!”

Karina was nearby, and at the same time, she wasn’t. Her fatigue and detachment peeked through a mask of friendly warmth, and her demonstrative arm-in-arm walk only enhanced the effect.

Karina was significantly taller than him. Her height and figure inspired not just one man to various thoughts, and sometimes mischief, but now she was completely absorbed in her own reflections, walking alongside him, pressing nearly her whole body against his, which only emphasized the fact that mentally, both of them were far from this place. In fact, they weren’t in the same mental space at all. Their thoughts moved in dissonance rather than resonance.

Of course, he could have guessed what Karina was thinking, but he had no attention for that. Two people, demonstratively pressed together, with the woman towering a couple of heads above her companion, threatening to overwhelm him with her femininity — two people physically close, yet mentally miles apart, lost in their own worlds.

He pondered how archetypes — he believed that’s what Jung once called them — his archetypes, like theatrical costumes, emerge, becoming his second persona, and after a while, he begins to believe in everything dictated by this new persona. Behavior, social roles, the small societal circles that shift depending on where you are — at home, at work, in transport, stepping outside for a cigarette or a scrap in the park, or deciding to charm a woman… Archetypes emerge naturally, depending on the situation he finds himself in, and lately, also based on mood and the decisions he makes.

He felt like a completely different person. For now, largely artificial, having become in a day or two a “standard” member of society, having decided to cut ties with the past, to bury — or even rid himself entirely of — his second (or hundredth, how many did he have according to Jung and Freud?) personalities, to become an average consumer, and perhaps, eventually, even form a social unit. The thought made him shudder. He had never seen himself as a family man. Society demanded it, friends and acquaintances thought the time had come, and relatives with whom he had long maintained only formal relations lamented the absence of it. He had come close several times to… but each time, his inner nature rebelled against such a decision. In marriage, he saw only something patriarchal, something that would kill all that essence in him that still made him live and enjoy life. Perhaps somewhere deep inside, he had developed a line of relationships with the opposite sex that he dared not cross.

Until now, she had been a desired lover, for whom he was ready to do much, but as soon as that bright and ambiguous person took just a single step toward formalizing the relationship through a marriage certificate, and with all the resulting consequences, she lost all her appeal for him. He could no longer, and would no longer, feel the emotional euphoria that had recently elevated him to the heights of his emotional Olympus. The woman turned into something completely different, gloomy, gray, uninteresting — and his consciousness immediately cast her image out. And along with the image, he lost all interest in her.

He was drawn to infatuation, that feeling from the “hunt,” from the first meetings, from the first touches in the hallway, from the first: “Mom’s away… the apartment is free!” And such relationships could (!!) last, if not forever, then certainly for a long time, but on one condition — they left the right to remain free… at least formally. Because there were cases when his relationships went so far that he lived with women, bore the burden of family responsibility, even planned things, but formally, both he and she remained free. Sometimes they quarreled, kicked each other out, then reconciled. And he didn’t mind curlers, slippers, the absence of makeup, or a worn robe in the morning. That was just the outer scenery; the main action took place in the mind and imagination. He didn’t lose his sense of freedom, nor deny it to her, took her bursts of jealousy in stride, returned them in kind… Only the desire to formalize the relationship legally would immediately destroy all of it.

Life consists of stages. Each requires serious transformation, a change in thinking, and sometimes a complete change of lifestyle. Many struggle with growing up, especially when they are thrown into adult life unprepared after school. Some take such changes simply — the situation changes, their approach remains the same, and in the new conditions, an individual emerges who has adapted but not acquired new skills, carrying them over from the past, remaining essentially an infant. Others try with all their might to remake themselves, learning a new reality and finding their place in it. And some resist with all their strength, unwilling to change anything, but reality comes anyway, placing them among the first or second types.

He, for example, did not wish for change at all. All social conventions were for him merely chains, ways society tries to constrain each person, and apparently, society succeeded. It succeeded so well that, for example, even losing a job — a significant event — made people worry more than necessary. He seemed concerned about the lack of means to exist, but in reality, the main reason was different — he fell out of the usual cycle of days, out of the routine someone had established for someone, realizing he could not imagine himself outside society’s rules. For such people, these rules were salvation; for him and people like him, they were punishment.

Karina, lost in her thoughts, lost her vigilance, and the pits scattered across the asphalt nearly became the site of their mutual fall. Karina screamed and collapsed onto him with her whole body. He managed to group himself in time, and only that saved them from sprawling in the middle of the pavement.

— I was just thinking… — she apologized, adjusting her curls, and his baser instincts immediately took control. He almost wanted to suggest they return there right then…

“What was I thinking?! — he scolded himself. — We…?!”

But what exactly “we…” meant, he couldn’t put into words right away. Thoughts swirled in his head but were reluctant to formalize, which made him somewhat uneasy. The new persona, the “new costume,” the new mask, if one could put it that way, didn’t yet possess the traits and skills inherent to the version of him he had been before deciding to claw his way out of the pit and become a new person, to merge into society.

The archetype was taking over, becoming him. Honestly, that didn’t bother him at all, because he himself didn’t know which of the many archetypes hidden in his subconscious was his true self.

“Probably, they’re all me!” — the thought flashed through his mind.

“You’ve got too much clutter,” the “respectable citizen” seemed to say, “We’ll have to get rid of all this!” he added.

“Probably, that’s what I’ll have to do!” — he agreed, meanwhile feeling the changes this new entity was bringing to his thinking and behavior.

— Are you cold? — he tried to hug Karina in a sudden impulse. — Don’t worry, we’ll warm up in the metro soon…

***

If we talk about work, the day could definitely be considered a success. Successful in every aspect.

It turned out that if you looked at the world with different eyes, assessing the situation from the perspective of an ordinary citizen — dedicated and faithful to their place in society, which in this case was the workplace — then an endless number of tasks appear.

He admitted that part of what had suddenly fallen on him that morning was nothing other than postponed tasks he had previously had no intention of completing.

There’s a category of tasks that, in principle, don’t really matter and probably won’t even be required by management. You can always refer to circumstances, more important tasks, and thus, if not bury the task entirely, at least postpone its completion until it’s forgotten or loses relevance.

But that was not how he acted. The same person who, except from a severe hangover, never came to work, whose thoughts revolved around nightlife, hungover at Zhenya’s, and who was more interested in correlating skirt lengths with the intentions of the opposite sex than, say, the possibility of relocating production to Southeast Asia.

Looking at himself just a week ago, he was surprised at how unaware he had been of his own descent — the pit he had been sliding into, the utter hopelessness of his existence, and the complete absence of any prospects or ambitions!

For example, the research… Management loved “throwing ideas into the masses”! They tossed them out, watched, and then decided whether anything would come of it. One of these ideas was the request to assess the feasibility of relocating or establishing production in Southeast Asia. He had been dodging this task for weeks, and likely would have continued to do so if he hadn’t decided to change himself — since the world wouldn’t change for him. And if anyone had to change, it would be him. That’s how he thought now. And he wouldn’t have lied if he said he liked it.

Reports were queued in a growing list of tasks that expanded faster than he could even organize them. It turned out he had accumulated many such abandoned tasks. Moreover, colleagues who previously had not rushed to contact him suddenly flooded his desk with requests, assignments, and small favors…

It turned out he had work up to his ears, and he marveled at how he had previously managed to do nothing for half the day, spending the other half drinking Zhenya’s “mad scientist” cocktails!

— Did you hear who spent the night here? — Igor patted him on the shoulder as he ran by. — “Keep it up! — and ran off. Fortunately, because much had changed, but his attitude toward Igor hadn’t. There was something about him that, even in his new persona, annoyed him as much as it did in a drunken haze.

— No, in general, Igor as a person isn’t bad… — he analyzed and reassured himself. — He’s even okay to deal with. At least reliable…’ — but something disrupted the confidence of these thoughts, and certain feelings didn’t leave him. He hated Igor just as much as before. ‘But on the other hand, an ordinary member of society isn’t without human weaknesses! — he reminded himself.

— Can I talk to you? — Alia once popped by. He was about to agree, but someone jumped in with their request, excited that for once he had done something for someone else, and he had to refuse the girl.

— We’ll definitely talk, — he smiled at her. — But right now, I’m swamped, as you can see! — he smiled at her again.

Alia said nothing and, like a shadow, disappeared in some unknown direction. And he wasn’t really watching her movements anyway. There was far too much work.

— Darling, shall we have lunch? — this was Karina. He couldn’t refuse her, especially since… Their relationship was developing unusually smoothly. He was gliding along a perfectly even plane, and she was guiding his path; it was almost idyllic.

Their appearance in the cafeteria was met with restrained reactions, although every one of the dozen people present undoubtedly understood what was happening. People are always eager to observe others’ lives, especially when events unfold nearby, resembling the twists of Latin American soap operas, and concern someone other than the viewer.

Previously, attention from strangers hadn’t bothered him much. “Well, they’re looking — so what! — he shrugged. — Must be envy!” — he laughed to himself, confident that everyone would like to dive into the world he was in then, enjoy it, and return without loss. Visit, so to speak, the “world of the fallen.” One of the most miserable hangovers had even prompted him to consider organizing such excursions for the curious… at their expense, of course, and without any obligations on his part. The idea seemed good, but his state didn’t allow him to even lift his head, so it came and went without being acted on.

Subdued smiles, equally restrained emotions, something akin to approval or even admiration. All of it would fade once the situation became ordinary, become normal, but would remain at the level of rumors or gossip.

— Today we have porridge, — Karina fussed around him, serving lunch. — And for the first course, looks like kharcho soup! — meals were delivered, so employees didn’t have to bring food from home, worrying about jostling containers or them being opened in their bags.

— Thank you, — he replied, slightly embarrassed. His new archetype was taking over, and he already felt awkward from the extra attention, but he couldn’t respond or withdraw — the social conventions wouldn’t allow it.

— Perfect! — Karina sat down next to him.

Two tables away, Alia kept her eyes on him. A fork frozen in midair completed the picture.

He felt uneasy, suddenly embarrassed, but could do nothing. Alia ate the rest of her lunch and, like a shadow, headed toward the exit.

— That’s not you! — she whispered in his ear as she passed by, bending abruptly. — They replaced you…

— What did she say” — Karina asked, shooting a glare at Alia’s retreating back.

— Ah, nothing, — he waved it off. –Some nonsense…

***

The whole day passed immersed in work. He didn’t even notice how the clock struck the end of the workday, and the employees, obeying the reflexes of office plankton, immediately started heading for the exit.

— I’ve been waiting for you, — Karina appeared instantly. — Today…

— I’m terribly tired! — he admitted, hinting that he would like to spend the night alone, in his own space…

— A warm bath and a cozy bed are waiting for you! — she smiled.

— I mean something else… — he searched for words. — In short, I’m just exhausted today. And I’d like to rest… Don’t get me wrong, really… — he realized that being a decent person wasn’t as simple as it seemed; he even surprised himself. In another situation, he wouldn’t have had to apologize or explain anything at all, but having decided to consider himself a member of society with a claim to decency and respectability, he had to…

Karina didn’t understand at first. Then she pouted. She seemed about to give a speech. But, apparently, she couldn’t find the words, so she just turned around dramatically and left, leaving him with a lingering sense of guilt.

He was fully aware that appealing to guilt was a favorite tactic of female manipulation, yet he could do nothing about it and was ready to run after her to… But she had gone. She slammed the door, leaving him alone with the feelings stirred by the situation.

Something deep inside him was tearing to get out, trying to reach his consciousness, to remind him of how he had previously handled such situations, but it didn’t break through, didn’t make itself heard…

***

The person who invented the subway must surely deserve a golden monument! At least, such thoughts occasionally crossed his mind. And it wasn’t even about the subway connecting different, sometimes incredibly distant parts of the city into a single whole, like the circulatory system of a living organism. Nor was it about the fact that somewhere above, the elements raged, the sun burned, or everything was buried under frozen snow — down here, none of that mattered. The subway was something more: a place to spend time, a place of meetings and partings. It was a place you entered with a feeling similar to visiting a store or even the foyer of a theater… The subway was significant, and its inventor simply had to be immortalized in gold somewhere near the first station.

Alya, it seemed, was waiting for him. She didn’t hide herself particularly, nor did she particularly hide her intentions. But fortunately for him, he noticed her while still approaching the coveted turnstile, in the passage, and the fact that she turned for a moment to the display window of a kiosk allowed him to slip past, avoiding yet another encounter he didn’t want at the moment.

“Who’s better?!” — the thought flashed as he already sat in the subway car. Naturally, he meant Karina and Alya. Each had her pros and cons. Each had potential for growth and her limitations. Each could become his companion… And here he faltered. Probably not everyone… Or maybe everyone? He got confused, inwardly smiling and regretting that he was bound by the norms of monogamous marriage. How easily the problem could be solved if he could legally have several women at once!! But here — dilemma and headache, however!!

And again, somewhere under the slab of decency, something stirred, sending a quiet little voice, which he, however, did not hear. And that voice told him that what he would have once found horrifying — the mere mention of a possible marital connection — now seemed perfectly natural to him, raising no questions whatsoever.

Meanwhile, the train carried him further and further toward the last station on the subway line, the rhythmic clatter of wheels and the conditioned air lulling him into a trance, threatening to turn into full sleep. And somehow, thoughts of Alya and Karina, their comparison — and why had he even thought to compare two opposites? — faded away on their own…

8

The apartment greeted him with an unfriendly emptiness. It turned out that a change in behavioral paradigms also brought a change in one’s perception of the world — especially when one stops using stimulants, alcohol first and foremost.

Breaking free from alcohol dependence doesn’t happen overnight — he’d been through that before. Though he didn’t consider himself an addict, he remembered how, during one such attempt, after a long stretch without alcohol, his body had demanded just a little — at least half a shot of vodka…

It always started out well. That feeling of cleanliness and calm. His head would clear more with each passing day, and even his muscle tone would spike for a while. It created the illusion — familiar to most alcoholics — that he could quit drinking at will. And it was true, for about a couple of weeks, while the main traces of intoxication were still leaving his body but still exerting their effects. The turning point came around the third week.

He had been walking down the street. The sun blazed mercilessly, and the melting asphalt yielded beneath his sneakers. Not that he particularly wanted to drink — just a kiosk with a wall-sized ad for a beer brand caught his attention. Immediately, he craved beer. That beer, cold and invigorating, foaming in the glass in the advertisement, beads of condensation streaming down the frosted side.

The urge was so strong his hands automatically reached for his wallet and paid for a cold bottle. He was ready to open it right there — even with his teeth — and probably would have, had circumstances not intervened and prevented him from popping the cap. So the beer went home with him, its cool, sweating side pressed to his head as he walked. There, common sense prevailed, and he promised himself to endure, to fight off the temptation. It wasn’t easy, especially with that bottle now sitting, forsaken, on a shelf in the fridge.

It got worse after that. The thought of a frosted shot glass practically haunted him. Actually, who was he kidding — it did haunt him! Something inside, accustomed to heavy doses of alcohol, insisted, reminded, triggered associations at the most inappropriate moments. The overwhelming urge to drink, to pour, to gulp, to dose — it never left him.

Clenching his will into a fist, daring himself to hold out, he managed to cope. Around a month and a half to two months in, the grip of alcohol began to loosen, its reminders growing weaker and weaker. And at about the three-month mark, the craving vanished completely. He experienced the world anew, felt himself a victor who had emerged, battered but triumphant, from his fight with the “green serpent.” Naturally, that very evening there had been women, champagne, and a foam-topped sense of victory in his bathroom.

Later he even laughed at himself — the comical irony of celebrating his triumph over alcohol by drinking it.

Sometimes he caught himself thinking that he didn’t belong to the category of people who abuse alcohol — just like every hardened alcoholic, convinced they can quit any time they like. But in reality, the road to sobriety is neither easy nor free of temptations. The hardest part is the rejection of non-drinkers by a drinking society, where a sober man is seen, at best, as an outcast — if not something worse. Not drinking, in such a world, is more than a crime.

The apartment greeted him with emptiness. The active phase of withdrawal still lay ahead, but he already sensed the world’s mutability — and at the same time, its grayness and dullness. And so, he immediately wanted a drink. At least tea, if you please…

Karina hadn’t called. He’d sworn not to pay attention to his phone and so tucked it into his pocket, periodically taking it out or laying it face-up on the bathroom counter, the kitchen table. Truth be told, he was waiting for her call. Waiting long, even with a tinge of resentment. But she didn’t call. And he, in his state and the irrational grievance that had crept over him, wasn’t in a hurry to dial her either. Perhaps they were both waiting — he certainly was.

Half the evening passed like that. Another cup of coffee had been downed, sending the hum of rising blood pressure through his head. He felt lonely and wanted someone to talk to… So when the phone finally buzzed, jumped on the lacquered surface, and vibrated toward the edge, he instantly picked up, not even checking the caller ID:

— Hello! — he said, fighting the tremor in his voice.

— Hi! — replied the voice on the other end. He didn’t recognize it immediately. It wasn’t Karina’s — this was a man’s voice, somewhat hoarse, occasionally uncertain.

— Well hello, good sir! — he replied, realizing that he probably wouldn’t get to talk to Karina tonight, for whatever reason. — What brings you to our hearth?

— Well, I don’t know, — answered Zheka, slurping something audibly. — I just thought…

— You thought and called, — he chuckled. — That’s good. So, tell me.

According to him, Zheka was calling purely out of excess free time and a desire to chat — though something else, something hidden, peeked out from behind that veil.

— What’s new with you? What have you got to share? — he kept pressing, keeping the conversation alive.

Zheka didn’t really have much to tell — he already knew most of it anyway — but it was clear Zheka was curious about him, though he tried to hide it.

— Well, I’ve decided to quit drinking, — he said, picking up on Zheka’s unspoken cue to steer the conversation toward what interested him. — They’ve put me on parole. You know that, right?

Of course Zheka knew. Even in his lair of the “mad chemist,” kept isolated and on invisible chains, the rumors had reached him.

— Is it true? — asked Zheka.

— I can’t vouch for everything you’ve heard, but I’ll say this — there’s no smoke without fire. It’s hard for me to put it into words, let alone make people believe it… But the most amazing thing is, I myself can’t quite get used to it. It feels like this isn’t happening “to me”, but “around me”. Like I’m part of the process, but more as an observer than as an active participant…”

— How’s that? — Zheka didn’t get it — and he could almost picture him, on the other end of the line, pushing his slipping glasses back up his nose.

— It’s like… I could ask myself why Evgeny kicked me out of his lab not so long ago, but now he’s the one calling. But in this case, it’s perfectly clear…

— What’s clear?

— As the pampered, sometimes lazy French like to say — “cherchez la femme”. In all misfortunes, look for the woman!” He practically collapsed onto the bed, feeling calmer and more comfortable at once. « … … …”

— What? — That seemed to be more information than Zheka could handle.

— Forget it, — he waved off. — That topic’s so slippery I don’t even want to touch it. Just remember — women are to blame for everything! — he joked. — It’s an axiom. Don’t believe their maxims, and don’t treat them with pathos. They like it, but alas, they despise the one who does it.”

— I don’t get it… came Zheka’s voice.

— It’s simple. Zhenya only lost it because he’s interested in a certain person we both know…

— And when the situation changed, and Karina was able to replace in my — what, heart, maybe — Alya’s place, Zheka hurried to pay me a visit, so to speak, — he almost added. Some things were better left unsaid.

— You bastard! — Zheka replied with a laugh. There was no irritation or resentment in his tone.

— That’s hardly news to you. But I hope all that’s behind me. Somehow I feel my past life was bright, spectacular, but it led to the same end as the fireworks of a junkie’s dreams. I think it’s time to change.

— That’s what I’m asking, — Zheka repeated. — Is it true?

— I think so. You know, just recently I was recalling my previous break with alcohol. Not the most delightful time, I’ll tell you. I’m afraid that on the road to leaving my old life behind, I’ll face no fewer obstacles. Withdrawal, longing for the past, all of that…”

Zheka couldn’t understand — he had merely been the one brewing his “morning remedies” in his lab, but hadn’t taken them himself. How could he know what a drawn-out binge, a string of hangovers, and alcohol withdrawal felt like?

— Do you need help or something? — Zheka asked, at a loss for words.

— Yes! Most likely I will. And the most important thing — if I come to you for a morning pick-me-up, turn me away. That’s the first and most important…

— And what else? What’s the second, less important thing?

“Take Alya away!” — he almost blurted out, but immediately realized that the subject required a certain delicacy and tact, since both Zheka and Alya themselves saw the world through, alas, lenses of very different shades, and thus their worldviews diverged considerably.

— I think the best help you could give me is to just listen carefully from time to time,” he said, almost slipping into sleep. Lying down was doing exactly that to him.

Zheka agreed.

— Then listen and don’t interrupt. It’s a very instructive story, in my opinion…

— Uh-huh,” Zheka replied.

— Just not too long…

— Not too long. Perfect, — he assured Zheka.

Once upon a time, there was a boy. He was somewhere around seventeen — or maybe even nineteen — which, at that age, is already a monumental event, making you feel like life is passing you by while you’re standing on some half-forgotten platform and your bus just never arrives. And so the waiting becomes dark and hopeless.

Everything seemed fine for him. Caring parents, decent classmates, and the school was arguably the best in the district. Everything worked out — for home, for school, even for hanging out in the yard with friends. But the opposite sex… well, they weren’t exactly ignoring him, yet they weren’t rushing to form close ties either.

The gold medal on the wall didn’t thrill him, nor did the numerous certificates he had amassed, which might impress a couple of dorky overachievers — but he didn’t care much for them. He was drawn, as boys often are at that age, to something beautiful, elevated, soulful — in other words, to voluptuous girls of a free-spirited nature, whose escapades were famous across the district. That’s where the attraction lay! They embodied what all the boys in the area — and naturally him — found irresistible.

Alas, as I said, these girls showed no interest in the bookish boy, who could spend hours talking about cosmology, the movements of planets, or funny stories from the lives of physicists or mathematicians — like the story of strict Newton, who allegedly had an apple fall on his head as a lesson, and supposedly not by accident, but misinterpreted, giving birth to the law now known to all.

The girls might have heard of Newton at best. They liked apples, but the laws of universal gravitation meant nothing to them, as their focus was on material things and male virility, not on intellectual or spiritual pursuits.

His testosterone-fueled brain refused to answer the obvious question: “What happens when all the romance fades, admiration wanes, and sexual pleasures lose their former edge? What then?” Two people, connected only by intimacy, suddenly lose interest in it — leaving a gap between them. How do you fill that gap? Her interests remained grounded in the material world, while he was ready to wander for years in realms of ideas and scientific exploration, never intersecting with her spiritually.

The question remained unanswered. He either didn’t notice it — or noticed but postponed any resolution. Perhaps things would settle on their own… After all, nothing else in his life was going smoothly enough to warrant worrying over something that hadn’t even appeared on the horizon.

It so happened that every girl he met saw him as nothing more than an amusing creature: knowledgeable, occasionally funny, wonderful for friendship, but unsuitable for romance. For some reason, girls respected rudeness, moderate lust, even stupidity and loquacity. Simplified, primitive vocabularies, unrestrained crude jokes, and assertive male behavior excited them, contrary to the logic he lived by.

The more of a goody-two-shoes he was, the more courteous and gallant he acted, the more he realized that such behavior was entirely misplaced in this lower stratum of the street, among proletarian youth.

I won’t recount the full story of this young man’s worldview breakdown, but at a certain point, he treated a girl somewhat poorly, which caused a storm of emotions on her part. They didn’t speak for a while, hissing at each other. She even plotted minor mischief, yet eventually, that emotional storm brought them closer. She understood the language of strength and even disrespect, forgiving him for everything that concerned his necessary treatment of her — within reason, of course. He realized that by maintaining a high level of emotional intensity, he could build the very foundation on which their relationship could stand. According to this logic, the emotional storm in a relationship should never cease. It might ebb or transform, but never vanish. For if the foundation disappeared, the gap that had once separated them would immediately reopen, and it would be impossible to fill.

Initially, his moderately disdainful, sometimes bordering on arrogant attitude provoked outrage on the girl’s part. But after some time, by feigning reconciliation and stepping back, calming the raging storm, everything would resolve.

By basing the relationship purely on emotional dynamics, he rocked the boat one way, then returned it the other.

And it so happened that this ability gradually became a skill. A skill that became his second nature. Deep down, he remained the same positive, dreamer-type boy from the “nerd” category, yet he created a persona of a repulsive creature — which, and only which (!!!), attracted the attention of the opposite sex.

— Are you talking about yourself? — Zhenya asked, surprised by his usual naivety.

“Actually, about you!” — he almost joked, giving a subtle hint.

— It’s just a story I wanted to tell you during the onset of my transitional withdrawal period,” he quipped. It wasn’t guaranteed that Zheka caught the irony.

— Ahhh… I see, — Zheka said slowly.

— Think about it, Zhen! It’s a story of life. Who knows, it might help somehow…

“Especially since Alya seems to have swapped places with the character in my story and is striving…” — the thought flashed again, one he was in no hurry to voice.

— I see… — Zheka drew out, apparently understanding nothing at all, and was already beginning to regret the time spent.

They said goodbye fairly quickly. Zheka, it seemed, didn’t grasp the figurative manner in which the message about Alya had been conveyed. He himself had made no effort to express it any other way.

Sleep came to him almost on its own once the phone call ended. The feeling of emptiness competed with that of a person who had kept his word and thus deserved at least a personal measure of self-respect

***

Morning, as usual, arrived unexpectedly. But this time, he was not tormented by a hangover, the sunlight didn’t hurt his eyes, and the coffee did not serve as a sobering tonic but rather spread warmth and sweetness through his body.

“Well, well!” he marveled at the sensation with which he greeted this morning. He had slept just as he was, in his clothes, presumably falling asleep immediately after the conversation with Zheka.

“What did I even say to him?! Something from life…” — the thought flickered through his mind. Nothing significant, probably…

The cup was carefully set down on the table, leaving a damp circle of its bottom. He had rested. And though his body ached and residual urges to sleep had not yet left him — he had rested. Morally rested. Rested from the pressing weight of society. Rested from people. From alcohol, finally…

“If this keeps up,” he smiled, “life might actually turn out alright!” — he voiced the rebellious thought, shaped by the lessons of his previous life.

And indeed, it turned out that the world was not as one-sided or grim as he had thought. There was much to interest him — books, for example.

“What do I have here?” — a book had been lying in plain sight for months. Someone’s book, as often happens: picked up to read, and then it just stays there — unread, its owner forgotten.

Orwell. Selected Works. A battered cover, yellowed pages — clearly an edition from the transitional period of the nineties, relatively large print run, decent printing, rushed and therefore imperfect translation, spelling mistakes throughout. Otherwise — a perfectly readable book.

1984—just the title, nothing more. He had heard something about it, and maybe even watched a film adaptation, though it had been in female company, somewhat tipsy, so only the final scene with the rats had stuck in his mind. Actually, it was because of those rats that he had decided to read the book. But whose book? Try as he might, he couldn’t remember. No matter — an hour more, a shower, getting ready, another cup of coffee, and thirty minutes could be devoted to reading… Of course, he could read on the subway, but he had long since given up on that habit, though he had once indulged in it. A couple of forgotten books there, once even falling face-first onto an open book while dozing on a bench, had cured him of that pastime.

***

The book turned out to be dark and grim, yet there was something in it, despite the fact that for a modern reader it was “out of format.”

The sense of hopelessness that he had encountered in the first pages lingered for a long time — right up until he entered the office. And there, stepping over the threshold, he finally shook off the spell, immediately plunging into the maelstrom of work.

— Last week I sent you some information about… — a blonde woman of maybe twenty-five, clearly fresh out of university, suddenly rushed at him. He might have seen her before, but now, consciously observing her, he realized it was for the first time. And what exactly she was talking about was a complete mystery to him.

— Excuse me, what’s your name? — he tried to slow things down. — Remind me, when and what exactly did you send?

She flared up, shouting something about urgency, immediacy, and other matters that constantly preoccupy newcomers. She vibrated with nervous energy, gesticulating wildly, shaking her curls, throwing out a hundred words per minute, all the while blushing and perspiring.

The young woman was striking, slightly on the fuller side, but not enough to be unattractive. He looked her over from head to toe, gauging her once more, and to his surprise, his libido didn’t perform any acrobatics demanding immediate continuation of the species… perhaps only with some delay.

— All right, I’ll try to help you, — he replied dryly — Just one request — please resend your query so I can immediately recall what it’s about!

Her face lit up; she bounced in place and ran, clicking heels, back to her workstation.

And, as it turned out, there was a mountain of such tasks piled up! They were hanging in the inbox, stacked on the table, heaped in disorganized piles on the desktop…

Even in the car, these tasks had occasionally been sorted — but the principle of that sorting was, to put it mildly, highly original.

In the “Total Trash” folder lay documents that should have died without ever being opened.

“In the Ass!” contained requests from ill-wishers and those who simply hadn’t taken a liking to him, had been rude, spoken unflatteringly behind his back, or outright denied him access to the body. “What a pig I am!” he muttered bitterly as he leafed through the folder. Here, too, were documents and requests from Karina.

“By the way, how’s she doing?” he thought. He hadn’t seen Karina. She hadn’t greeted him at the start of the workday; her presence was entirely absent.

“Well, never mind! I’ll find her later,” he shrugged for the time being.

He found the materials from the morning’s greenhorn graduate in a folder with an obscene label, suggesting that the submitter would be dealt with separately, outside working hours. He shuddered, and a deeply ingrained imp in his subconscious rubbed its hands maliciously and spoke up, as if to say: You’re aging, starting to forget things.

“Hm, interesting… did I do anything toward her? Or not? No!!” he cut himself off. “What about Karina?” — he got up from his chair to cope with the revelations that sometimes occurred on a sober mind.

Karina was nowhere to be seen. Her workspace was empty, her friends, at best, remained silent, occasionally giggling behind his back, but no more. News of their relationship had already become public knowledge, and shedding it was not easy. Now it stung him, even worried him. Meanwhile, the imps, laughing at him from the inside, whispered that just a little drink would calm the stressful situation, and the irritation mixed with giggles and other attitudes toward him would immediately vanish… But he had sworn off alcohol, so he continued to suffer.

Not finding Karina, he returned to his own workstation. The same blonde girl was there, coquettishly hugging a folder to her chest, swaying her hips, casting playful glances at him while hiding behind the same folder.

— Really? — he asked.

“Well, here’s another little question…” she said, handing him the folder.

“I can guess how she earned her grades at university and how she persuaded the guys to share their completed assignments”, — he thought.

Indeed, the questions had piled up. So many that if he tried to tackle them all at once, he probably wouldn’t have managed in a couple or even three months. Systematically dodging tasks, fending off orders, slipping into fits of frenzy and internal office intrigue, he had managed to pile so much work that even he couldn’t make sense of it all at a glance.

Only his intuition and a simple rule saved him: most of these tasks no longer mattered to anyone, they had been assigned in a state of impulse, and therefore could be just as painlessly moved into a newly created folder titled: “Postponed Forever.”

What worried him most were the tasks assigned by the owner himself…

— What are you up to now? — Igor’s voice flickered through — and disappeared before a reply could even form. In fact, no reply followed. Not that he had ignored his colleague, nor did any resentment arise.

“And you can even work with him!” — a rebellious thought flashed through his mind.

Alya appeared on the horizon a couple of times, flickering like a half-shadow, but never actually came close. He wanted to talk to her, yet he couldn’t find either a reason or an excuse. Previously, such sentiments hadn’t really embarrassed him — he would push straight ahead, sometimes being blunt and rude, which, of course, irritated the girls, while still somehow making him irresistibly attractive.

There was something about Alya, but no more than that. It was a different matter with Karina — a vivid personality, someone who was never boring to be alone with, and whom he wasn’t ashamed to show up with in public. Predictable, yet a little crazy.

“After all, so much depends on the woman who’s next to you!”

And yet, he couldn’t avoid running into Alya. Almost head-on! They crossed paths as he exited the cafeteria. It even seemed to him that she had been waiting for him there, faking the chance encounter at the very last moment.

— Hi! — he squeezed along the wall, passing by the girl.

— Hi! — she smiled, almost suffering. “How are you?”

He was feeling wonderful, and he hurried to let her know. At the same time, he quickly excused himself, citing work and promising to return to the conversation later. Giving one of those promises, the kind people use to veil refusal and unwillingness to speak an unpleasant truth.

“Again with the formalities!” — he thought, growing irritated. All these social conventions, necessities, and rules of conduct were becoming harder and harder for him. There was something unnatural and hypocritical about them, against which his whole being now revolted, just as it had in the past.

The whole day passed in duties and nervousness, which only intensified as the workday went on. Karina never appeared, not even answering his phone calls. He considered going to her after work, but starting a new life demanded such physical and emotional energy that he mentally asked Karina for forgiveness and decided to spend the night alone… Fortunately, the workday was coming to an end. Igor appeared from time to time on the horizon, adding a touch of nervousness, but otherwise…

***

— This is all very ambiguous, — he twisted the research report in his hands, which was simultaneously a proposal for action, the owner. — Very ambiguous! — doubts were gnawing at him. — Who assigned you this task? — he suddenly asked.

He and Igor would have exchanged glances if they weren’t standing on the owner’s carpet. The boss had summoned them at the last moment, just as they were ready to leave their desks, so neither he nor Igor enjoyed being in the office. Especially knowing the boss’s fondness for evening sessions, which could easily turn into several hours of unpaid overtime.

— Well, how so?! — he exclaimed. — We’re not acting on our own, — he replied to the boss’s question. — Everything was done as requested…

The research report had been prepared over more than two weeks, and apparently, the owner had already forgotten about it. This happened to him often. Perhaps the stars aligned in certain positions, or his wife polished his brain to a perfect shine, and then he would start spouting ideas, projects, and all kinds of headaches for the employees. The grass or powder, as the company joked, would soon wear off, and the former inspirations would vanish, but those tasked with executing the assignments took them seriously, thinking, “better safe than sorry,” spending time and resources, ultimately producing work that went unused.

— Asia? Wind turbines for Indonesia? Power substations for palm oil processing plants? — he flipped through the report. — What is this?

— Technically, it’s all feasible, — he replied. He could have stayed silent, but the bitterness of being overlooked for weeks of work wouldn’t allow it. “The key unknowns remain political and social factors…”

— And what should be done about it now? — for some reason, the owner wasn’t in a hurry to send the report along with the previous ones, which had also failed to interest him.

— Make a decision… — he answered.

The owner fidgeted with the report for a while, carelessly flipped through a few pages, and set it aside.