Part I: Self-portrait

You're reading the story of a boy who wanted to be a writer. He sat on a windowsill on a dauntingly beautiful April afternoon, his face reflected in the glass opposite, split in half by a white cigarette. A symmetrical, banal face, intelligent, banal eyes and features, distorted by the occasional springtime allergy cough. If there were nothing but this spring, this April, no matter who we attribute this beauty to, everything would be fine. Cafes scattered throughout his beloved city, crisscrossed by streaks of women, skirts, skirts, scissors of thighs, semicircles of hips.

In his hand, a book, read hastily, unnecessarily, because he doesn't want to be a reader. He searches for his place on the other side of words. He hammers, whines, feigns indifference so that his dignity, which is slowly beginning to feel cheated, won't abandon him.

Autumn, winter, allergies, summer. He dilutes his irritation with a cigarette, which in turn fuels his cough. He examines his arms, sculpted at the gym, his muscles, yet toned with each successive cigarette. A pack of Marlboros, Marlboro matches, an ashtray on the windowsill. Marlboros. He pours the ash onto the edge of the windowsill, only to realize a few seconds later that an invisible spring breeze has cleaned up the mess for him. He should be moving forward, completing missions scattered around the city. But he'd like to be a writer. The next day resembles a computer game, running around the city, running errands. Unfortunately, without a weapon in hand. The only form of rebellion he can muster is riding the tram without a ticket. Poznań heroism.

At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the sun streams through the window. His face ages with each passing second; he thinks he can feel it. He feels the smoke dancing around him, lulling his tissues, paralyzing his cells. The smoke flows through his veins, filling his healthy, pissed-off body. Time to get back to his apartment, to deal with someone else's words; he has to commit them to memory. He'd like to be a writer, though.

It's embarrassing to admit it, isn't it? How can you say out loud that you "would like to?" It's so humiliating. It's hard. You have to sow quietly, under the cover of darkness, pretending you don't care. And wait for someone to tell you at dawn that it's grown beautifully. But the only thing that grows at dawn is a section of the chisel with which the future of the species is carved. You carve in dark abysses, you cut through the expanse of cobwebs, anonymous as their owners. The censorship will cut out this fragment. The censorship sleeps in the reflection on the other side of the window. He seems determined, he provokes, he attacks, but he condemns himself for it. Inside him sits a Jesuit, a servant of his own frustration, a man who, no matter how many tailcoats he puts on, will never look human.

Spring doesn't work. It's overrated. Good for poets and fabric softener ads. Not even for writers anymore. Which he is not, but would like to be.

The sun slowly retreats behind the old, tired tenement house. The reflection disappears, and those small eyes become transparent, like his whole face. Finally, they stop watching him. Now only time is watching him, lost and yet to be lost, people who see him and already know everything.

A kid in a tracksuit is peeing against a wall. He thinks no one sees him, but a boy sitting on the windowsill does. The guy finishes and, at the same moment, casually tucks everything back into his pants. He walks away, but we know his underwear is turning a nasty yellow. Apparently, it doesn't bother him. The boy who wants to be a writer feels superior. He was watching him when the other guy couldn't see him. Just like you see the kid in the window now, but the kid can't see you. Do you feel superior? Look around; maybe someone is watching you right now and knows exactly who you are, who you want to be, but you're afraid to say anything. The boy in the window wants to be a writer. Maybe it's funny—he smiles to himself, too, even though he can no longer see the reflection in the window. He feels he's being ridiculous, and all he can hope is that he's not pathetic. That same hope remains for you and your hidden desires. Maybe you also live under the illusion that everything isn't written on your face. That the tissues that make up your skin, asymmetrically interwoven into your features, don't form words, silent, unwanted confessions. Unwanted, because there's always something to hide.

The child climbs down from the window and stubs out his cigarette. On the fading April afternoon, the glances exchanged on the street slowly fall into the chasm between what we desire and what we want to say about ourselves. How good it is that people so rarely look at each other.

Puppet theater

What am I doing here? Why exactly did I come here? I guess I've outgrown my secret, unrequited crush? I guess... I remember back in elementary school, when the object of my immature love was my English teacher. I studied and got good grades just to see the smile on her face. It was so childish that I laughed silently at the memory. But that was a long time ago. I can't stoop to such behavior now. And yet I did it. Why?

Before my eyes was a girl who seemed to be the answer to my questions. I knew virtually nothing about her, except that she was a pretty brunette and worked at the Stasiek pub. A girl like many others. And yet, something drew me there, to that place, a place I wouldn't have visited if I hadn't happened to be passing by and recalled a certain story from a few days earlier.

Yes, two, maybe three days. It was an ordinary summer-autumn evening, one of many spent anywhere, no matter how, as long as with whom. I sat by the fountain and chatted with Radek. It was 7:30 p.m. People were constantly passing through the cobblestone streets of the old town. It seemed their sole purpose was to block my view of the Museum of Modern Art, which always made me laugh when I looked at it. I don't know why. It was a little mystery.

Music from nearby clubs flowed around me. The gray mass of passersby eventually thinned and took on color. From it emerged the silhouettes of beautified, extravagant young women who, without makeup, would have looked younger than fifteen, gelled-up hustlers, then a more elegant crowd – men in their thirties accompanied by younger women, visiting exclusive establishments. Finally, security patrols appeared on the streets. A lazy half-moon, surrounded by stars, rested in the thick, dark sky. Nightlife was beginning.

We sat there, waiting for the rest of the company, chatting about everything and nothing, when suddenly he approached us. A mysterious brunette woman. She handed us leaflets and said with a permanent smile,

"We invite you to the newly opened pub 'Stasiek', it's around the corner."

Then she went off to haunt other people. Out of boredom, or perhaps out of simple curiosity, we glanced at the paper gifts and tossed them into the bin next to us.

When I was walking to the store on Thursday evening and saw the word 'Stasiek' burned into a wooden board above me, I remembered this probably meaningless story. And I asked myself: why, having passed this way a dozen or so times—perhaps an exaggeration, a few—had I not noticed this "newly opened pub" before? Ha, good question. I'll think about it someday. If I feel like it.

In my mind's eye, I pictured a pretty girl who probably didn't remember me, just as I hadn't remembered her a second ago. "I wonder if she'll be here today," I thought. It didn't occur to me then that she didn't have to work there at all, just hand out flyers. I turned the doorknob and walked in.

My first impression was average at best. The smoky interior, the almost iconic wooden tables, the barely perceptible lighting, supposedly designed to create the right atmosphere, the rotten green and gray decor. All of this evoked memories of similar establishments frequented by underage high school students, rightly hoping to be sold alcohol. There weren't many people. A group of five at one table and a young couple at another.

I walked up to the bar without feeling anything, and surprisingly, I saw her. I couldn't help but recognize her, even though I couldn't remember a single detail about her appearance. Besides her brown hair, of course. In such situations, I simply explained that my subconscious was associating the current image with the one from a few days ago. It compared them and rendered its verdict, not wanting to bore me with thousands of lines of calculations.

I saw her shapely figure in a chair behind the bar, a book in her hands. I could only see faint writing on the back cover, but I was almost certain it was some Harlequin. The passage she was reading must have been a love scene, because she didn't notice my presence until she turned the page.

Confused by my appearance, she approached the bar and, with the look of a little girl caught cheating, asked,

"Excuse me, I didn't notice. Can I get you something?

" "Beer. This must be a very interesting book?

" "Oh, I like fantasy. Especially Tolkien.

So it's not Harlequin after all," I thought. I'd misjudged her. Don't judge a book by its cover. Neither did the owner.

"Hmm, you're sitting there reading, nice work," I said with a gentle smile, which seemed silly a moment later when I realized I shouldn't have called her "you." After all, we didn't know each other at all.

"It's a relaxed day today; weekends aren't easy," she replied. I guess she didn't take it to heart. For some reason, seeing her behind the bar, I thought I'd find something poetic and mysterious in her. But she was an ordinary, perfectly normal girl. I had to laugh just thinking about how, a second ago, I'd been looking at her like a painter searching for hidden meaning in a classical landscape. And suddenly, the last vestiges of the charm vanished when she touched on a completely mundane subject—oh, I forgot about the beer...

I didn't really want a beer. I wanted to talk to her. About anything, about Tolkien, whom I also liked, philosophy, or the weather. I felt the need to talk and listen, like characters in uninspired movies who confide in bartenders over whiskey. Instead, I watched her pick up a clean glass and fill it with beer, probably completely unaware that all my thoughts were directed at her. I saw her brush back her shoulder-length brown hair, her gaze darting randomly, searching for a stop.

The conversation trailed off, and I, already accustomed to the stranger's voice, began to pick up other sounds I'd previously ignored. They all hit me at once, as if trying to convey something important, shouting over each other. And so I heard the voice of a boy telling his sweetheart he couldn't go to a party with her the day after tomorrow, the loud laughter of the crowd from the other table, the sound of beer clinking into a glass, all mixed with jazz emanating from nowhere.

I felt intoxicated by the very atmosphere of the place. My thoughts were torn, clashing, refusing to let me rest. What was I doing here? Why had I even come? How did I even know I'd meet her? Maybe I didn't know, and I was counting on it like anyone playing the lottery counting on a six?

And suddenly, surprising myself, I interrupted my thoughts with a question stranger than undiluted beer on tap.

"Did you know that Tolkien invented his own languages ​​and wrote poetry in them?

" "Oh, I wonder who'll read that now." As she said this, she giggled to herself like a child who'd just played a trick. "And how do you know? Do you like Tolkien too?"

"Well, even so," I thought to myself, "it's better to talk about Tolkien than politics or the weather.

" "Have you read 'The Lord of the Rings'?" she asked, placing a glass of beer in front of me.

"Yes, all the parts. One of my favorite books, although I didn't like the ending. It could have been more original. After all, Frodo...

" "Hey, don't tell me the ending. I'm only halfway through. What do you think about..."

I threw down a fiver, and a long, informative conversation about fantasy literature began. And then philosophy. Not about the weather.

Sometimes you're only seemingly happy. You think you have everything you need, and yet an inner voice tells you that one or two pieces of the puzzle are missing. You don't know which ones. Go out and look for them, maybe you'll find them. You'll go on a long, long hike, hoping you might stumble upon something. And when you finally do, it turns out the next piece doesn't fit and has to be thrown away."

I was looking at the box containing my puzzle, which read "n pieces with n approaching infinity." The box was empty, and next to it, a little boy was trying to put the pieces together, having fun. I approached him and was about to ask who he was, why he was touching my property, when suddenly a young brown-haired girl appeared in front of me and shouted,

"Hello, we're closing!"

"Uh, what's up?

" "It's two o'clock, Master Philosopher. Too much fantasy and beer, perhaps?"

It was the bartender. She watched with amusement as I sat in a chair against the bar, rubbing my eyes. The music had already stopped, and I couldn't hear any voices or laughter behind me. The place was empty.

I felt foolish. Master Philosopher? I guess I really had a few too many beers and was reconsidering the liar's paradox. Or I was trying to figure out which was better—an evening stroll through the old town or a picnic outside the city.

"Philosopher?" I asked, even though I knew what she meant.

"Marek might be a possibility.

" "My name is Jacek. "

"Nice to meet you, Magda.

I thought some guy from TV would barge in any minute and say, 'You're on Candid Camera.'"

"Okay, Jacek. Come by tomorrow. It'll be another day."

Slightly dazed, I stood up and started to leave. The rotten green and gray decor irritated me even more than before. As I approached the door, I turned back briefly to say goodbye and saw the barmaid Magda's green eyes smiling pityingly at me. I must have looked like an idiot.

"Did you leave the kettle on?" she asked.

"I don't know, maybe... Would you let me take you out for coffee sometime?

" "I don't know, maybe..."

I had only one thought on my mind: going to bed.

I opened the door and stepped out onto the street. Fresh, cold air hit me. The cloudless sky and night lights would normally put me in a poetic mood, but right now I didn't feel like it. I didn't bother with things I'd forget tomorrow morning. So I kept my eyes on the ground and watched my shoes race against the sidewalk.

After a few minutes, during which my feet took steps of their own accord without my even noticing, I stood before the stairwell and saw a black-and-white cat watching my movements to my left.

"Hey, kid," I whispered. He didn't respond.

The next day, while eating breakfast with Radek, I pondered many things. I was interested in why the birds hadn't flown away to warmer climes yet, when the leaves would start falling from the trees, and what subjects would be added to my third-year English studies. I thought of everything I could, just to avoid digging up yesterday's memories from beneath the thick layers of memory, as I was wont to do after a night out. Radek's curiosity, whom I considered a gossip worse than those women in TV soap operas, made me even more irritated.

"What? Did you have a good time last night?" he asked.

"Well, you could say that.

" "Look, it's great that you're having fun, but you could let me sleep at night instead of slamming doors.

" "I didn't slam them. You know perfectly well they always make noise.

" "Exactly, you have to go to the landlord eventually.

" "Then go, who's stopping you?

" "Just so you know, I'm going. But first, tell me who you spent the evening with last night. With those idiots from the journalism department?"

"With one friend," I said after a moment of hesitation.

"Do I know her?

" "I don't think so. Do you have to know all my friends?

" "I should. I like to be well-informed.

" "Seriously? I wouldn't suspect you of that.

" "So? How was it?"

I'd had enough of his questioning. I thought a visit to the "journalism idiots" would be a good idea. Their dorm was about fifteen minutes from our room. So I took a quick shower, put on some clothes, and left the building, which reminded me of gossipy Radek. Stepping out of the cage, I saw yesterday's black-and-white cat. This time, it was lying under the van, sleeping. "I won't speak to you again," I thought.

Walking along the route I had permanently etched in my memory, I tried to take in all the splendors of the departing summer. The sky was as beautiful as can be in late September. White, fluffy giants wandered aimlessly across the blue backdrop, and the sun broke through easily, taking advantage of the fact that it could still be at a higher altitude. The streets were coming alive again after the night's madness. I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes after 2 p.m.

The thought struck me that on my way to the dorm, I'd see the Stasiek pub, which I'd actually preferred to avoid. Despite all my efforts, I still remembered the humiliating smile of the barmaid Magda and her voice, more irritating than a flock of mosquitoes. "Master philosopher... Did you leave the kettle on?... Come over tomorrow..." Come over tomorrow? Yes, I will!

But later.

Against my will, I passed the place I'd disliked since yesterday, relieved to find it closed.

As soon as I entered the room, I was gripped by the fear that the axe hanging in the air would fall and decapitate me. A mixture of sweat, men's perfume, tobacco smoke, and steam from instant noodles assaulted my nostrils like a prickly monster. The dim sunlight, despite the open blinds, startled me. How is it possible that the academic year hasn't even started, and I'm seeing images of the aftermath of the exams? I thought. "I guess I don't appreciate enough that I'm living in a boarding house in normal conditions. Almost normal. If it weren't for that gossipy Radek.

" "Sorry for the slight mess," Jarek said, as if it were indeed a small mess. A jumble of men's clothes, beer cans, candy wrappers, and something I completely didn't expect—books—littered across the two beds, the floor, and the table.

"Can your lungs breathe this air?" I asked, knowing full well they were.

"They've already adjusted." "Sit down," he said, brushing some of the killer composition off his bed. After a moment, to my delight, he half-opened the window.

"Thanks. How are you?

" "As you can see, I'm studying." He grinned from ear to ear, as was his habit when he was in a good mood, which was almost always.

"Oh yes, I see," I replied, looking around the room again. Everything looked even worse than before. "Too good."

At that moment, Michał appeared in the doorway, a bald, fat guy smashing beer cans against his forehead. He was good at it. He'd probably have something to show his grandchildren in his old age. For reasons unknown to me, he hated my roommate Radek, and the hatred was mutual. Just like the other "journalism idiots," only on a larger scale.

"Hi Michał," I said.

"Hi Jacuś, what brings you here?

" "I wanted to visit some old friends. Besides, I was fed up with your favorite Radek.

" "That idiot and gossip?" And rightly so. Come with us to the next room. I'll introduce you to our new classmate.

"Good idea," Jarek added. "She's a nice girl. I'm sure you'll like her."

I happily left the air, which was too thick for me, and followed them into the hallway. A moment later, we stood in front of door number 257 and entered without knocking. I was the last to cross the threshold.

"Good morning, Miss Magdalena," said Michał, glancing at the figure hidden behind the open wardrobe door. "Miss Magdalena? Let me guess, that's...

" "Hey," she replied, still standing. Although all I could see were a woman's feet in pink flip-flops, I knew immediately it was her. "Master philosopher... Nice to meet you, Magda... Hi." Yes, it's definitely her. "

We have a guest from English Philology. Will you join us for a beer?"

The mysterious figure poked her head out from behind the wardrobe and, seeing me, said with a smile,

"Hi, Jacek.

" "Hello."

"Oh, I see you two know each other," Jarek said, surprised.

"Well, sort of," she replied.

"So what about that beer?

" "Why not. Give me an hour.

" "An hour? What are you planning to do in that time? Watch the Fashion Show?

" "No, Oprah.

" "Okay. In an hour at your place."

2

I was sodden after a few beers, just like everyone else. A few in the dorm and a few at the club. The conversation turned to the latest movies, the news in our city, Hollywood gossip, and then Michał started telling dirty jokes I'd heard a million times. Magda wasn't lucky enough to know them, so she was forced to listen to a guy bursting into the house and seeing his wife in bed with her lover, or Kowalski meeting up with Nowak.

And I, searching for hidden meaning in the ashtray that Jarosław constantly used, condemning the rest of the company to secondhand smoke, wondered if I'd really been that bad yesterday. Perhaps she was interested in my philosophical side, which was generally incomprehensible to most people? After all, every reasonable person feels the need to ponder matters more ambitious than how much they've drunk, whether they'll have enough money until the end of the month, or when a boring lecture will end.

And occasionally speaking up, tuned out of Michał's old jokes and Jarek's fictional, "real-life" stories, I listened to Magda's story about the guy who came to the pub yesterday and spent several hours chatting with her about fantasy literature, with a particular emphasis on Tolkien's works. She avoided my gaze, and I feigned indifference, as if she were talking about someone I didn't even know by sight.

"Funny guy," Michał commented. I wanted to say something about the ridiculousness of his figure, which must have hindered him when boarding the bus. But I didn't, instead defending the "funny guy." "

There are all kinds of people. Maybe he had an extraordinary personality, don't you think?" "I said, jokingly, looking Magda straight in the eye.

"Very possible," she laughed.

"Hey, you know this," Michał began, "a guy walks into a bar and..."

I'd had enough. I decided to take a break and go get another beer. At the last minute, however, as I passed Magda, I changed my mind and asked her to dance. She agreed.

The music was calm, slow, pleasant to the ear, but I barely heard it. It seemed to be just a backdrop for Magda's gentle voice and the beating of my heart. The same voice that, like a red rose, lingered in my mind as a beautiful and painful memory. Colored lights flashed around the room. The image spun in all directions, allowing no respite. It spun this way and that, at varying speeds, moving closer and closer. The indistinct, blurred shapes of dancing figures appeared and disappeared around me, but I was only interested in the one whose delicate hands intertwined with mine in a dreamy dance.

"I made a fool of myself then, didn't I?

" "When?

" "Yesterday at the pub. Believe me, I don't usually go to sleazy bars and talk about Tolkien to beautiful barmaids," I said, emphasizing the word "beautiful," thinking the trite compliment would work. "And I don't usually fall asleep leaning against the bar," I added with a smile.

"Come on, it was quite interesting," she said seriously, ignoring either the worn-out epithet I'd used to describe her or the smile I'd given her. "I get so bored when I have to work beyond the weekend. It was nice talking to you. And I learned a few new things."

There was something in her voice that made even the most serious statement seem like a joke. If she were a TV presenter reading the news, I wouldn't have believed a single one of them. But I liked that hidden mirth. It was certainly much better than Michał's jokes, which I'd escaped from.

"So maybe we'll meet again?" I asked.

"Why not? You'll have to finish the story.

" "What story?

" "The one about finding happiness. You compared it nicely to a puzzle.

So it wasn't a dream after all. I wonder what else I told her then.

" "And the little boy playing with someone else's puzzle?

" "You didn't mention that.

" "Then I'll tell you another time. Maybe tomorrow, somewhere romantic?"

"If I let you invite me," she whispered, "we'd better go listen to Michał's jokes.

" "Don't tell me you like them."

"I don't, but don't tell him that," she said, pulling me toward the table where we'd been sitting earlier. I was happy to hear I wasn't the only one who thought Michał was a bad joker. It was like a little revenge for the "funny guy."

When our hands parted, I felt like I'd lost something precious, and at the same time, I was brought back to reality. The magical, intoxicating energy vanished, everything became clearer, the conversation in the dance seemed distant and unreal. The image spun slower, no longer changing directions, and I couldn't guess how much time had passed.

"You were gone for a long time," Jarek's powerful voice struck me like a hammer. It echoed in my head several times before fading away.

"Aha," Michał added, "you missed a few good jokes.

But not this one," I thought.

"I have to go now," Magda said.

"Did you leave the kettle on?" I asked, and she laughed softly in response.

"Maybe you'll stay a few more minutes?" Jarek suggested.

"No, I can't. I'll have to get up early.

" "So, see you tomorrow," Michał said.

"Will you walk me home?" I offered, hoping to talk to her for a while longer, that the magical aura surrounding her would take over me longer.

"As you wish," she said casually and headed for the exit.

"I told you you'd like her," Jarek smiled.

After a moment, I caught up with Magda before leaving. The autumn night air cooled my body and refreshed my mind. Memories from a few hours ago came flooding back. I realized I'd just left the student club at the journalism faculty dormitory. Literally a few minutes from a smoky room cluttered with junk.

"You took your time.

" "I was thinking about you.

" "You're a lousy poet.

" "But a good philosopher.

" "Ha, you wish. Are you always so cliché?

" "What do you mean?

" "Talking about a romantic place, offering an escort. That's some medieval nonsense. It's a shame you didn't kiss my hand when you met me.

" "Don't tell me you're a feminist."

"I'm not. Feminists are ugly, old women who have no luck with men." I completely disagreed with her on that point, but I ignored her stereotypical attitude. It's like believing all blondes are stupid—I'm just moving with the times and trying to be modern.

" "Modern... What do you mean?

" "We'll talk tomorrow, it's already here." Indeed, out of nowhere, we were standing in front of the dormitory entrance. A faint light was coming from inside.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?

" "And what else?" Perhaps I'll offer you some French wine, and then we'll make passionate love until dawn?

"Good idea..."

I grabbed her fingertips and pulled her body, light as a butterfly, toward me. Our lips met, and, as if terrified by the prospect of separation, they clung to each other in a passionate kiss. At first, gently, like a child trying to catch fluff carried by the wind, then more boldly, offering physical pleasure and elevating our minds to higher states of consciousness. From the magical power grew a plant with many flowers, which, winding through souls, avoiding dangerous corners and dark secrets, connected hearts and bound them together with an invisible thread. Reality vanished, an extraordinary aura descended, and with it a land of intoxication and fabulous feelings.

And the child continued running through the endless clearing, chasing the light feather. She almost had it in her small, pink hands, almost clutching it with her weak fingers, when a sudden gust of wind pushed the fluffy fugitive a few centimeters away. And this game continued for some time, and would probably have lasted even longer if the wind hadn't abated and allowed the delightful little creature to grasp the feather that had so exhausted her patience and yet given her so much joy. But now the young creature realizes that a feather brings pleasure not when held in the hand, but when unattainable, carried by the wind, free. So she releases it and watches it drift slowly across the clearing, rising higher and higher, all the way to the sky itself... Reality

returned, revealing the night sky, the chill of the autumn wind, and the faint light from inside the building.

"I'll come tomorrow," I whispered.

"Come..."

It's so good that Radek isn't here, I thought. It was one of the few mornings spent peacefully. Student mornings, because it was already after noon. I stood in front of the mirror, ready to leave, but I kept checking to make sure everything was in order. First, if my jeans were too baggy, then if my red and white shirt matched the rest of my clothes, then if the scent of my perfume was too faint and I should reapply it, and finally, I focused on the leather shoes, which seemed a little too elegant and forced. Relieved, however, I realized it wasn't so bad and left the building.

This time, as I descended the stairs, I didn't notice the black-and-white cat.

After the dozen or so minutes it always took to get from me to the boys, after passing several streets and the Stasiek pub, after entering the dormitory without identifying myself, without even visiting Jarek and Michał, I finally stood in front of door number 257 and knocked three times. A few seconds later, which felt like years of heart-pounding silence, Magda appeared in the doorway. She wore no makeup and ordinary everyday clothes—rolled-up jeans, revealing the same womanly feet in the same pink flip-flops I'd seen the day before, and a yellow blouse with a simple pattern.

"Hi," I said.

"Well, hey," she replied, eyeing me. Apparently interested in my outfit, she asked, "Is there an occasion today?

" "It's a chance I'm meeting you."

"Come in, romantic," she invited, leading me into the room.

It was remarkably reminiscent of Jarek and Michał's room, except that order reigned supreme, and the air, lightly scented with women's perfume and hairspray, was breathable. There were no beer cans, no candy wrappers, not even books. There were only clothes strewn here and there, creating an artistic mess. The sun, screened off by red curtains, illuminated only the table and part of the floor. A slightly overweight blonde sat on one of the two beds, finishing the last of her coffee.

"Hi," she said upon seeing me.

"Hello," I replied.

"Sit down, would you like something to drink?" Magda asked.

"Hmm, maybe some French wine?"

Meanwhile, the blonde finished her coffee and set her cup on the table.

"I'll... go to Karola's. Bye," she said, getting up and leaving the room. I've always liked a woman's sense of humor.

"French..." Magda said thoughtfully. "There's no French, only Polish." Then she opened the cabinet and took out two glasses and a bottle full of burgundy liquid. The bottle was labeled "cherry wine." There was something so distasteful and disgusting about it that I felt a shiver run down my spine, and memories of my first years of high school, when my classmates and I enjoyed this type of drink flashed through my mind. I didn't expect this from her—sorry for the glasses, but I don't have anything better." She looked at me and, as if reading my mind, laughed and explained. "Don't be afraid, it's good wine, homemade, but that bottle..."

"I was already starting to suspect you of bad taste," I said, feeling a palpable sense of relief. "Don't judge a book by its cover. Or wine by its label.

" "My father makes good wine. I always drank it with my friends," she began the conversation and filled both glasses halfway. "I took one bottle to kick off my studies."

"Just don't tell Michał about it, or he'll empty it in a moment." I laughed and tasted Magda's father's homemade wine. "It's really good," I said honestly.

"Okay, I won't tell him. After all, you've known him longer," she admitted, taking a sip of the burgundy liquid that I'd only just thought was piss. "How exactly did you meet?

" "It's a long story," I replied evasively, and I searched my memory, trying to recall what it was like.

"We have plenty of time." I sensed something in her voice that heated up the atmosphere and intimidated me. "And anyway, you can tell the short version."

"The short version? We met at a party.

" "Not very original. You met me in a more interesting way.

" "Because you're a modern woman, and modern women are met in unusual ways.

" "And you're modern?

" "I don't think so. I'd say rather old-fashioned.

" "But you came without flowers."

"Because I didn't know what the nature of our meeting would be, or whether I'd even find you there.

" "Exactly, you surprised me. I didn't even have time to get ready.

" "You look beautiful anyway."

"We've known each other for three days, and this is your first compliment. So you're not old-fashioned after all.

" "Well, maybe just a little."

I felt the wine awakening my senses, inducing a blissful state and confidence; the blood rushed to my head, bringing a pleasant warmth. Everything looked more colorful. I put down the glass and, after a moment's hesitation, said:

"Actually, I came to invite you on a little trip.

" "Sounds interesting. And what kind of trip is it?

" "I can't say that yet. It's a secret.

" "Okay, at least tell me what I should wear." I'd always dreaded such questions, perhaps sensing a hidden meaning.

"You'll look good in anything," I extricated myself from the situation.

"Then wait outside the dorm. You're not going to watch me change, are

you?" "Frankly, I'd love to. But you probably won't let me?"

"Of course not.

" "Then I'll leave," I replied humbly, "just so I don't have to wait for years."

"If you care, you'll wait," she said, smiling mischievously.

I went outside and, just like before, didn't stop by Michał and Jarek's. They probably weren't there anyway, I thought, "and besides, they'd be asking about me and Magda." In that respect, they weren't much different from Radek the gossiper. They liked to listen, just didn't share what they'd heard with everyone around them. They were like a triple-locked gossip vault.

Leaning against the stair railing, staring at the door, I mentally calculated how long it would take Magda to get ready. First in seconds, then in minutes, until I got lost in the rush of numbers and doubted she'd even come. But she did.

From her outfit, I guessed she wanted to look versatile and appropriate for any occasion, which was understandable, since she didn't know where we were going. She wore the same rolled-up jeans, low-heeled shoes, and a long blue blouse with a delicate neckline. Her hair was loose and fell gently around her shoulders. I was still a little tipsy from the wine, still feeling confident, and the warmth inside hadn't faded. She must have felt the same.

"Will you finally tell me where you're taking me?" she asked, approaching me. I was delighted to see her light makeup, no frills. She looked beautiful anyway.

"To the puppet theater.

" "Are you serious?

" "Yes. Have you ever been to a puppet theater?

" "Oh. Once, in elementary school.

" "Then it's worth seeing again.

" "Okay, what's the title of the play?

" "Little Red Riding Hood." Good, right?

"You're starting to scare me," she sighed and looked at me like I was crazy.

"Ha, I was joking... About that little red riding hood, of course. This will be something more ambitious. You'll see, you'll like it.

" "I'm still afraid of you..."

3

This time, however, I decided to visit the guys in the dorm. Not to brag or report on the previous evening, but they might be offended that I'd been to Magda's the day before and hadn't even said hello to them. Opening the door to their room without knocking first, as we usually did, I was prepared for the terrible stuffiness and mess I'd seen two days ago. Or even worse.

But I'd miscalculated. The air didn't irritate my respiratory system, and the view of the room was quite bearable. Both Michał and Jarek were at home.

"Hey," I said.

"Oh, Jacuś," Michał greeted, "we haven't seen you in ages. We even thought about taking you for a beer or something.

" "Exactly," Jarek added, "you've been neglecting your friends lately."

"You still can't get enough," I replied, thinking that two days ago was a long time ago for them. "Just the day before yesterday you dragged me and Magda to a club, and today you've got another proposition. You're going to tire me out.

" "Uh... what are you talking about? What Magda?" Jarek asked, genuinely surprised.

"What do you mean? Your classmate.

" "We don't know any Magda from journalism," Michał said, "nor were we at the club with you on Friday. What's the matter with you? Were you smoking something?"

"Don't make fun of me.

" "You're completely crazy."

I looked at their embarrassed, laughing faces and felt exactly like when, during our first conversation in the pub, Magda called me Marek. I thought they were making me out to be an idiot, or I was on hidden camera. Or both.

" "Do you think this is funny?" I asked.

"Are you feeling okay?" Jarek replied with a question, completely different from himself, already unsmiling, confused.

"I'll pop in to see Magda, maybe she hasn't gone mad yet," I said, and left the room and into the hallway. Apparently interested in my behavior, Michał followed me, and after a moment, Jarek joined him.

I stood in front of a door that had previously had the number 257 on it, but now had 232 in its place. "What the hell?" I thought. I walked to the end of the hallway. No sign of number 57. No sign! Had I really gone mad? I turned to the guys, pointed to door number 232, and asked,

"Who lives in this room?"

But I didn't hear an answer. They were both fighting laughter a few meters away, clearly losing. I'd often seen them like this, but usually I wasn't the butt of their jokes. I knew they'd be incapable of any normal conversation for a while longer. And although laughter is contagious, and highly so, as I'd witnessed many times, I wasn't amused by this situation.

I looked at the mysterious door, intending to knock, but it beat me to it, opening on its own. Well, not on its own, actually, because a tall, blond man appeared. I took the opportunity to peer through the stranger's body and saw a room like many others in student dorms. Essentially, they were all the same, differing only in the personal gadgets of their occupants. This one was clearly occupied by men, which I recognized as quickly as I could distinguish Magda's room from Jarek and Michał's. The surprised blond looked first at me, then at the cackling boys, then shrugged like someone who hadn't gotten the joke, closed the door, and headed down the hall.

I didn't know what to think. After all, I'd seen with my own eyes that there were men staying in Magda's room, I'd also seen that the highest number on the second floor was 240, I'd heard Michał and Jarek denying they'd been to the club with me on Friday, and they had no reason to lie. But the events of the past few days weren't a dream. I was there, that's for sure.

"What day of the week is it?" I asked Michał, who had already more or less contained his laughter.

"Sunday," he replied, then added, "Listen, I don't know what's wrong with you, but you better go get some sleep and stop making a fool of yourself."

Without a word, I turned and headed for the stairs that would lead to the exit. As I reached the wall, I heard Jarek's loud laughter. And then Michał's. This is truly contagious, I thought.

Descending the stairs, I pieced together the facts in my tired head. On Thursday, I was at the Stasiek pub, I wondered. On Friday, we all drank beer at the club by the dormitory, I spent Saturday with Magda, and now it was Sunday afternoon.

Something was wrong. When I stepped outside and the cold, seasonal wind blew over me, everything seemed unreal, artificial. The trees, clouds, and sun were colorful cardboard models cut out of them; the people walking down the street looked as if they were hiding their real faces behind well-made masks. These masks could change expressions, frown, move their lips—everything human faces can do. But they weren't real. I could feel it.

"Easy," I thought, "just don't go crazy. Michał and Jarek must have played a stupid joke on me." And now they're laughing at me even harder. This kind of joke makes me imagine who knows what—I looked around again, and the trees looked like trees, the clouds like clouds, the sun like the sun, the masks disappeared from the faces of passersby—though on the other hand, how can I explain the sudden change from number 257 to number 232 and the tall blond man in Magda's room? Surely they wouldn't have gone to all this trouble. What if we went to the student club next to the dorm? Maybe I'd learn something there? No, why? I remember very few details from that evening anyway. I don't even know who was behind the bar. Or maybe... Yes! The Stasiek Pub! I might run into Magda there, and even if not, I'll ask about her and find out what interests me.

Obsessed with a single thought, I stopped walking and ran along my old route, and a few minutes later I arrived. Panting and sweating, I was about to try the doorknob, about to enter the pub, but he... He was gone! There was only a barred door, secured with several turns of chain and locked with two old padlocks. There was no sign above it with the word "Stasiek" burned into it.

This news hit me like a brick that, a dozen years ago, when I was still a small child, had missed the top of my head by a few centimeters, resulting in only a small scar. My parents always attributed it to divine providence. Great, I thought, a guy lives in Magda's room, there's no door number 257, the "Stasiek" pub doesn't exist. What else will happen to me today? Maybe Radek will convince me I'm a Martian? Radek, that gossipy Radek... Only he can help me. If this is a joke between the journalists, he definitely has nothing to do with it. They don't like each other.

Taking my time this time, I walked calmly through the last minute of my walk home, not even looking at the usual spot for the black-and-white cat. I climbed the stairs and entered our shared small apartment. Radek was sitting at the table eating dinner. Pasta with sauce, as usual. I wanted to throw my fists at him, punch him in the face, and force him to confess about the past few days. But I didn't, and instead sat down across from him, and, trying to sound as natural as possible, I began:

"Hi Radek. Listen... Remember the day before yesterday at breakfast I told you about an acquaintance of mine?

" "Not really, because the day before yesterday after ballet, I slept over at the boys' math class. And who was this acquaintance?"

I placed my hands on the table, covered my eyes, and drifted away to unknown lands, seas, strange lands full of unexplained phenomena...

"You have a visitor," I heard, as if through the wall, a dull, unfamiliar voice.

"Hey, sleepyhead," said the second one, also familiar, though I couldn't remember who it belonged to, "hey you!" he shouted, "get up!"

The voice struck the inner walls of my head, reverberating, returning, crumbling them, causing cracks along their length, and waking me from my peaceful sleep. I knew who it was now: Jarek. I turned my head and saw him standing over me with a plastic bag full of beer, followed by my gossiping roommate, who was just slipping out of the room, even though I knew he'd be eavesdropping.

"Hi," I said, "has something serious happened that's making you haunt me so early in the morning?

" "Early in the morning... Interestingly put. It's half past one. And what happened is that you're starting to go crazy, and I, as your good friend, am saving you." It dawned on me that all that confusion in my head from yesterday, the changing numbers on the doors, the disappearing pubs and beautiful barmaids, wasn't just a bad dream. This was really happening.

"With beer..."

"Like what? Listen, it's all because you haven't partied with us in ages." Just a few beers and...

"What day is it?

" "Sunny, ha ha!" he laughed at his own bad joke. I never liked it when people laughed at their own jokes—sunny Monday, Jacek.

"So it's still..."

"So it's still what?

" "Nothing, nothing...

" "You really went crazy yesterday. But everything's fine today, right?

" "Yes..." I replied. Jarek's voice, a little too powerful, yet somehow gentle, had a calming effect on me. I felt that despite my many doubts, the whole situation made sense. If a movie can go off for a few hours, then it probably can go on for a few days. It was the only "logical" explanation I could think of. Not bad, actually.

"That's good. How about a beer?" he asked, setting two cans on the table.

"Why not?

" The situation was getting out of control. I always feared the moment when I couldn't say "no" anymore, when I stopped counting the beers, when I would drift further and further away on my own. I couldn't remember how I'd found myself in the boys' room, so familiar to me, nor did I know what time it was. Only by the light streaming in from outside did I realize it was still daylight.

"Jacek, I'm telling you, look at how you looked in front of that door," Michał said, and after a moment they both burst out laughing.

"Like a lost little girl," Jarek added. My already-closed eyes registered the cigarette in his mouth, which moved to the ashtray and back with infinite frequency.

"And when Marek came out..."

Marek... That's exactly what Magda had called me on Thursday. Coincidence? Or was it something more? No, because Magda wasn't there. She existed only in my consciousness. The moments spent with her seemed so distant now that they could just as easily have been a dream as reality. She was a beautiful memory, a mistake of a cooled mind, incapable of distinguishing the real from the fictional world. But was it possible that I had fallen in love with a being who didn't exist? How could I explain this?

In my mind's eye, I saw the green-gray interior of the Stasiek pub, the stairs in front of the dormitory dimly lit at night, a bottle of well-disguised homemade wine, brown hair flowing in the wind. Was it possible? Did it really not exist? And the rolled-up jeans, the blue low-cut blouse, and the subtle makeup? Was it possible? Did it really not exist? And the book that seemed like a Harlequin was actually "The Lord of the Rings," the green eyes gazing at me with pity, the colorful shapes flashing in dance, and the touch of her hand? Was it possible? Did it really not exist?

Did I subconsciously want to love a woman so perfect she didn't exist? Had my search for perfection led me into the dangerous and unexplored depths of a dreamland that, unlike reality, was susceptible to every interference, able to be shaped and changed depending on my mood? Didn't all these situations seem suspiciously beautiful? An evening alone with a beautiful stranger, similar interests, reciprocated feelings? Now they seemed only a dream, a dream whose splendor gave hope for the coming day.

A cigarette in Jarek's mouth, brown hair, tobacco smoke, a label reading "cherry wine," a glass ashtray, a blue blouse, a dorm room. Images, real and imagined, intermingled, created something that occupied my mind and warred with me, and after long hours of fighting, weakened and dejected, alone on the battlefield, I collapsed helplessly onto the hard ground and for a moment stared at my rifle and bayonet, the only thing left, the only thing that still belonged to me...You have a visitor," I heard, as if through the wall, a dull, familiar voice.

"Hey, sleepyhead," said another, also familiar, though I couldn't remember whose it was. "Hey you!" he shouted. "Get up!"

The voice passed lightly through my head, leaving its mark on every brain cell. I already knew who it was: Michał. I turned my head and saw his broad frame standing over me, his bald head with the high forehead he liked to smash beer cans against, and his smiling, plump face. My gossiping roommate, Radek, had retreated to his room, even though I knew he'd be listening anyway.

"Hi," I said, sound asleep. But I was glad to see him. I knew everything was alright—what brings you here?"

"What brings me here? What's this all about? We haven't seen each other in ages, right? How's Magda? Tell me!"

A hard hammer blow to the head and a cold shower on the back. There was a moment when chaotic thoughts flew around and wouldn't settle, a moment of uncertainty and disorientation. Who was Magda? Or the woman I'd already considered a figment of my alcohol-damaged imagination? Or her?

"Okay," I replied, completely unaware of what was going on. "Listen, what did you do yesterday?

" "We mean who? Me and Jarek? We were partying out with friends. There's no point in telling. But I'm curious what YOU were doing.

" "Was Magda with you?

" "What are you talking about? Have you lost your mind? Magda was with you!

So it's true! I've gone mad. I'm a lunatic," I thought. "I can get myself a yellow card now. Or I'll murder someone in a fit of passion and the state will have to support me. Ha, cunning plan!

" "What time is it? What day is it?" "I'm fine ," I asked, though something told me he'd say "sunny."

"A few minutes after noon. And Tuesday," he surprised me, "is something wrong with you?"

"No, no. I'm fine. But I have a headache," I lied. "I wasn't fine at all, and I didn't have a headache at all, I just didn't want to embarrass myself again.

" "Ooh, don't tell me you blacked out on your date with Magda. What a story!

" "Oh, you didn't, it was quite a nice evening. I'll tell you later," and I started thinking about what I'd tell him.

Michał looked at me with a smile and said,

"Good. Because, you know, I saw her this morning and she was acting strange too. I have an idea. Get yourself together and we'll go to the Stasiek pub." No, no... It's not what you think. We're not starting the day with a few beers. That's where Magda works. You can talk to her calmly, right... So what?"

Under different circumstances, I probably would have been surprised that this pub, "Stasiek," existed, but nothing surprised me anymore. I wasn't thinking about anything, not even interested in what kind of sane person frequents such a bad place on a Tuesday afternoon. I surrendered to fate, to which I had probably belonged for a long time. I dutifully followed Michał's instructions, showered, and dressed. We emerged from the cage together.

A black-and-white cat was pacing between the cars.

The day was sunny but cold. The sky was as blue as it had been a few days earlier; the sun seemed to be in its rightful place, but the cool breeze gave me goosebumps and heralded the imminent arrival of autumn.

After a minute, maybe two, we were standing in front of a door that should have been barred and locked with two padlocks, and a wooden sign that shouldn't have existed. Yet everything looked just like the Thursday I'd first visited. We walked in, and our eyes met the dreadful, now familiar, green-and-gray decor. Magda stood behind the bar. She looked beautiful, as always.

"Hey," she said. "

Hi," I replied.

"So? Shall we tell him already?" Michał asked.

"Yes," Jarek's voice came from behind me. I turned. He was standing with a tall blond man, an obese blonde woman, and gossipy Radek. He held a cake with candles in his hands. I didn't have to count them. Several figures of old friends emerged from the darkness, as well as a young couple and the merry company from Thursday night.

"Oh no..." I whispered, sensing the situation, "so I was on hidden camera after all?"

"No, not on hidden camera," Jarek replied, "we just played a little joke on you. Happy birthday," they all chorused. "I completely forgot about my birthday. September 30th... How could I not have guessed?" I started laughing out loud, and a moment later, everyone else did too. Hilarity engulfed the entire Stasiek pub.

"You guys really had me fooled," I said after a few seconds, barely able to speak. "Who came up with that?"

"Me," Michał replied.

"But you talked Radek into it... How is that possible?

" "Everything had to look convincing, so they approached me," my roommate replied. "Besides, the guys from journalism aren't such idiots after all. We even liked each other.

" "That's true," Michał added.

"I take it changing the numbers on the door wasn't a big deal for you?

" "None at all. We were just afraid you'd get suspicious the first time. After all, you've been here a few times before.

" "Okay," I hesitated, "but what about this pub? How did you do it?"

"It's my place," Jarek replied. "I've decided to start a business. We'll be opening in a week. As you can see, there's still a bit to do. We need to repaint the walls and stuff," he smiled. "And we'll definitely change the name.

" "And how did you know I'd come here and meet Magda?

" "We didn't know," Michał said, "but we assumed it would be possible. We know you too well," he laughed. "We knew you'd notice her. And even if you hadn't come of your own accord, we had a backup plan. You would have met Magda some other way, she would have mentioned where she worked... or something.

" "I could have guessed.

" "Unlikely. There was someone with you the whole time, someone who was trying to make sure you didn't mess up the plan. And you were being followed. You see, we had to know what you were doing to adjust our actions."

"But you know what... I should have killed you for that funny guy at the club back then," I said.

"I had to spice up the whole story.

" "And Magda?" I looked at her. "Is she really studying journalism?

" "Yes," she replied. "And I'm your birthday present." She looked at me with her green eyes, no longer with pity, but with genuine, passionate affection.

"You surprised us with the sleeping on the bar," Michał interjected. "But we had a good laugh.

" "So?" Jarek asked. "Sing?" and I heard the song known worldwide, translated into all languages, "Sto lat..."

I didn't know what I was feeling. And it's good they didn't ask me about it. No one had ever done something like that for me. In a way, I even admired them for it. They must have put in so much work, so much effort. And to think I started thinking I was crazy...

My twenty-second birthday was wonderful. The best I remember from my short life. But everything pointed to another attraction that day, or rather the next, for me.

It was already after two in the morning, the black sky filled with white dots that I would probably have missed if Magda hadn't been there, and our bodies, pressed together, hadn't been lazily gliding along the already sleepy street.

"Do you really want to hear about the little boy with the puzzle?" I asked.

"I'd love to," she replied in a whisper. We passed the gray building where my rooming house was, shrouded in darkness and separated from the street by a purple light. A black-and-white cat sat at the entrance. It purred to me. "

So you too," I thought.

What needs to happen for the boy to get back on track? Will his girlfriend be forced to make sacrifices to help him?

A different kind of everyday life.

It all started out as usual, like in most teenage stories produced by foreign television. A new school, new friends, a new school year, and therefore a new boyfriend. It was high time to forget about the summer frenzy and find the perfect candidate for a lasting relationship. Someone with whom I could explore my interests, feel at ease, and whom I could trust. I quickly caught my eye on Bartek, a boy from my class. His parents owned a photography company quite well-known in our town. I hoped that by meeting him, I would fulfill my biggest dreams – to become a famous photo model and, at the same time, meet a charming, handsome man. I wasted no time getting to know him. He soon realized I was interested. That was when he first proposed a meeting. A date! I was overjoyed! Preparing for our meeting took me half a day. It's understandable that I wanted to look better than the models he saw every day at my father's work. I guess it worked, because after a while, he arranged a photo shoot for me. It was another excuse to spend more time with him. I loved our "chance" meetings. He admired me! He said I was a true artist.

We got along better and better. We were the perfect couple. I saw jealousy in my friends' eyes, and Bartek strutted down the halls, bragging to his buddies. I don't know what they talked about, but all I cared about were the moments spent in his company.

The problems started after a month, when he suddenly started disappearing, never showing any signs of life. I had no idea where to find him. He wouldn't answer his phone. He wasn't home either. When he was with me, he often disappeared. He'd changed...

"Where were you last night?" I asked him more than once. "I called, and you weren't there. I was worried!

" "I was with my friends," he would reply in a muffled voice. Yet I still felt like my words weren't reaching him. I even worried he was getting bored in my company. He often looked like he was about to fall asleep.

"I know. I guessed because you kept telling me so. I just wonder where you two go so often?

" "We wander here and there. We go to some pub, sit and chat...

" "All night long?!," I demanded, irritated.

"What?! You don't talk to your friends on the phone for hours?" he replied sarcastically. Bartek thought I was talking on the phone way too long. He was especially nervous when we were together and my cell phone suddenly rang. But I couldn't do anything about that.

"Yes, but it's not the same..." I defended myself.

"It's exactly the same! At least I save on bills by meeting them 'in person'! Actually, what are we talking about, honey?" He suddenly changed his tone to a gentler one and wrapped his arms around my waist. "What matters is that we're together, right?"

"Yes, but somehow he doesn't feel it... You're neglecting me..."

When I accused him of not having time, he always kissed me, just in case. Probably so I wouldn't ask him anything anymore. But I was getting more and more worried. I decided to force him to pay more attention to me than to his friends. I threatened to break up, he got scared, and it was back to normal. However, my happiness was short-lived. There were trips to the cinema, for pizza, to the pub, but Bartuś wasn't the same anymore. He definitely drank more. When he offered me alcohol, I refused. I wanted to do something about the situation, but I didn't know what was happening to him. Until...

I visited him one time...

"I brought some movies, shall we watch them?" I suggested as I entered the apartment. I rented a comedy, hoping I could cheer him up. I thought that if he laughed a little, he'd change his behavior.

"Sure," he replied without much enthusiasm. "Put on the VCR, and I'll get something to drink. Coffee? Tea? Coke, or something stronger?

" "Coke.

" "I'll be right back," he said, disappearing into the kitchen.

The cassette wouldn't rewind. I had no idea what to do, so I called out to Bartek. He didn't react in any way. I thought he might not have heard me, so I got up and looked into the kitchen. I saw Bartek standing by the sink. He was holding something in his hand. Something that he then swallowed and washed down with a glass of water.

"What's that? Are you taking any medication?" I asked anxiously. He hadn't mentioned that he had a cold or a headache, so the worst immediately came to mind... That he had something incurable and was afraid to tell me.

"Anka! What are you doing here?! You were supposed to wait in the room..." he looked at me reproachfully.

"But the VCR is jammed... I called you, but you didn't come. Don't change the subject! What's going on? Tell me!

" "No, it's nothing. It doesn't matter," he said, turning away from me. Then I noticed a small bag with a white powder inside on the countertop. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. I felt anxiety, a stabbing pain in my heart, worried about Bartek and what he was doing. I couldn't believe what I'd just seen. I had the worst suspicions...

"It's important to me because I care about you! Tell me, what was it?" I asked, pointing to the bag. Only then did he notice he'd forgotten to put away the mysterious powder. He picked it up and quickly stuffed it into his pocket.

"You're making so much noise about nothing. Just headache pills. I'm tired..." he said, looking away again.

"I don't believe it! Tell me the truth! I've noticed a long time ago that you're acting different. Is something wrong?! Don't lie to me! I just want to help you, Bartek..." I grabbed his hand and made him look at me. Tears were already welling up in my eyes. Bartek walked into the room and motioned for me to follow him. I saw the uncertainty and sadness in his eyes. He opened his mouth several times to say something, but he didn't know how to begin his explanation.

"Amfa..." he whispered in my ear after a moment of silence.

"Bartek... You..." I said calmly, sitting down on the sofa. I didn't want to believe it was true. It felt like a ball was stuck in my throat, because I couldn't speak or swallow. I took a deep breath. "Why?

" "What 'why'?!" he shouted loudly. I jumped in terror, because I hadn't expected such a reaction from him. He was acting so violently. I didn't even notice when he sat down next to me, put his hands on my shoulders, and pushed me against the backrest. "You want to know why I'm taking it, right?! Why am I taking this stuff? Good question! Because I feel like it. That's enough of an answer for you?! I like it, understand?! And don't try to change it! Don't interfere and don't tell anyone, or you'll regret it!

" "Bartek..." I said his name softly. He didn't let me get a word in, and I was growing increasingly afraid of him.

"No more questions!" he said firmly, grabbing my wrists and pressing me even harder against the sofa. "Don't act so surprised. You're no saint either. We live in times like these... that you have to adapt... Everyone has to go crazy sometimes...

" "Let me go!

" "I need a change!" he continued, ignoring me. "It gives my life color! Do you understand!? I'm free from my boring everyday life! I'm rediscovering myself and the world! I can't be...

" "Let me go! Please! It hurts!" I interrupted him in a pleading tone. Bartek released his grip, stood up, and began pacing the room. I didn't know how I should react in such a situation. Should I be as aggressive as him, or burst into tears?! I tried to reason with him. "Haven't you considered how your family and friends would react to this? Drugs?! Your father owns a well-known company. Do you know how this will ruin his image?

" "That's why no one will find out! Because you won't tell anyone!" he said confidently.

"They put you up to this?! Your friends?!!" I said, standing up. I knew he would never have come up with such an idea on his own. And my problems with Bartek began precisely when he got involved with a new group of people.

"And you should know that I do! They understand me and they care about me!

" "They only care about the money for the stuff!" I tried to do something, but with every word I said, it got worse. He wouldn't let me get close, touch him, or hug him.

"What do you know?!" he said, pushing me away. "You don't know them. They're..."

"Bartek..." I interrupted him. "Think about your health, your life. They're slowly killing themselves and want to drag you down with them. What's next?! What will you do when you run out of money? Will you start stealing? Is that what you want to do?! Hit rock bottom?!

My last statement clearly had the desired effect, because Bartek calmed down, sat down, and stared at the ground.

"So what should I do?" he asked calmly. I could tell he really wanted to change.

"Back off while you still can. It's best to cut off contact with these guys. I think that's the only way out.

" "Are you kidding?! I can't do this! It's not that easy..." he began, but stopped when he saw the tears in my eyes. I felt helpless, the worst feeling... When you want to help someone you love, but you don't know how. I think Bartek understood my pain. "Okay, I'm sorry! I'll do what I can."

He hugged me and kissed me, and I felt like he was back to being the sweet, charming guy I'd fallen in love with. But I knew that was just the beginning of the problems.

For the next week, everything was fine. Bartek wasn't doing drugs... At least that's what he claimed. I helped him through the tough times. I let him drink because he said it helped him. Unfortunately, I had the opportunity to see how naive I was. On Friday, I was at a photo shoot, and, as usual, Bartek accompanied me. As we were about to leave and I was going to change, he said to me,

"I'll be right back. I have something to do. Wait here for me.

" "Okay."

However, after twenty minutes, I gave up waiting for him and decided to go home myself. Then I planned to call him and make a fuss about him leaving me... But on the way, I saw Bartek with some guy. I quickly hid behind the corner of the building so they wouldn't notice me. They were both gesticulating wildly and looking around. He handed my boyfriend a small bag, then pulled a joint from his pocket and offered it to Bartek. I had no doubt this stranger was a dealer. It was the worst sight in the world. I was convinced my boyfriend was cheating on me. I was furious with myself and with him. I ran straight home and cried all night. I couldn't understand how Bartek could have changed so much in just a few weeks... We were so happy! He was the only person I trusted implicitly. Yet he had deceived me. I wondered how I hadn't noticed before? Suddenly, fear filled me, a feeling that I was losing him. He was a different person now. I quickly concluded that if he had changed, then I must too.

The next evening, I followed them. I followed Bartek and his friends to the pub where they used to hang out. Needless to say... For once, I fit in. All the girls looked, to put it mildly, like they'd just stepped out from under a streetlight. I decided not to stand out. The best way to describe it was that I was wearing clothes from when I was five. So now they were short and tight, a little too small for me, but that was the point. Bartek was more nervous than surprised when he saw me. Even though his friends tried to convince him I should stay, he grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, starting to lead me toward the exit. "This isn't the place for you. How did you find me? You weren't following me, were you?! By the way, what do you look like?" he said, calmer as he left the pub.

"Shocking, huh?" "I asked ironically, pulling away from his embrace. "I was shocked by what I saw yesterday too, but let's not talk about it.

" "What are you talking about? This is a club for easy girls and drug addicts. You don't belong here!

" "You don't belong here either! But if you're coming here, then so am I. Besides, how do you know who I really am? I've had the opportunity to learn that you never know the whole truth about a person!

" "You'd better go home! I'll call a taxi," he said, picking up his cell phone. "I'll come over tomorrow.

" "I won't settle for that kind of excuse again. If you don't have time to be where I am, then I'll stay with you," I said. "Don't try to convince me, because I'll stay here anyway, if not with you, then with someone else. "

Bartek looked at me with utter surprise. I didn't know if he was more surprised by my determination or by the fact that I'd even dared to come to such a place.

"Okay, stay!" Maybe after one night here, you'll get over these stupid ideas. Come join me!" he said ironically.

"I think your friends won't mind," I said ambiguously.

He led me to a table. Within moments, I was drunk. Each of my new friends bought me a drink. Surprisingly quickly, I was persuaded to drink. Bartek just stared at me, not entirely pleased. He couldn't speak or protest, because it would have been perceived negatively in the company. Then I started dancing with everyone nearby. Strangely enough, Bartek stayed sober until the end. Probably to keep an eye on me, so he had to worry about me. That was exactly what I wanted, for him to feel what I usually felt. When we returned to the table after the dance, Maciek sat down next to me. My friend put his arm around me, which angered Bartek. Then he said,

"Who wants a joint?"

"It's starting," I thought then. I didn't know if I wanted to teach Bartek a lesson or if I really wanted to smoke, but I took a joint, just like everyone else. I felt a twinge of fear and excitement as Maciek helped me light it. But the fear quickly faded, and curiosity remained. I inhaled a few times, until finally, at some point, I felt all my problems melt away. I felt like laughing and being nice to everyone. An hour later, Maciek, placing his hand on my lap, said,

"I also have something special for our new kitten! Ecstasy... Wanna try it?

" "Sure," I said without hesitation. I kept glancing at Bartek out of the corner of my eye, watching his reactions. Until then, he'd just clenched his fist tightly, but hadn't intervened. This time, he couldn't take it anymore and got up from his chair.

"Enough!" Bartek interjected. "Let's go!"

"Dude, chill out! Don't be selfish! Don't you want your girlfriend to have a good time?" "Maciek said as I swallowed the pills he'd given me. Bartek wouldn't be able to stop me. My curiosity was stronger. I looked at Bartek triumphantly. He was scared... He was so scared for me. It gave me satisfaction. I felt like I'd achieved my goal. Suddenly, I felt like I was on a rollercoaster. My vision blurred. All I could hear was Maciek's voice: "It'll be more fun!" and then the boys' laughter. I was gone... I'd never felt like this before. I know I started dancing with everyone again. I remember that towards the end, Bartek argued with Maciek that he was dancing with me too much. Maciek replied,

"Relax, man! It's your girl. We're just warming her up."

It's true. I was so "wowed" that I couldn't control my behavior. Bartek drove me home in a friend's car. He was angry. He didn't speak to me the entire ride and wouldn't even kiss me goodbye.

In the morning, I had a terrible headache. I took some painkillers and tried to remember what I'd done last night. I remembered I was supposed to meet Bartek that evening. Even though everything hurt and I didn't feel like getting out of bed, I went to the park at the appointed time. I wanted to check if my stunt hadn't been in vain and if he realized how foolish he was.

"Yo, model miss!" he greeted me. It was obvious he was. He wrapped one arm around my waist, the other going under my shirt.

"Are you crazy?! People are watching!" I pushed him away.

"What's wrong? Don't you remember?! You were nicer yesterday, and now you're in a bad mood? Relax, girl!

" "Come on! We need to talk.

" "Yes, absolutely!" he said seriously, only to burst out laughing a moment later. I tried to focus on what he was trying to say, so I wouldn't be distracted by his behavior.

"That's pointless!" It can't be like this—

"You'll never see my friends again!" he interrupted.

"What?"

"There was a police raid yesterday after we left. They caught a few. We were lucky! The rest moved somewhere else," he said as if nothing had happened. He eyed me. He kept moving closer, and I moved away.

"We can move too," I pointed out.

"Yes, but alone. You and me! Without them. The police are after them, and I don't want you dragged into this. Besides, I don't want to watch this… watching them hit on you," he said, sounding worked up. "Want to drink? Fine. Want to use? It's your choice. But I won't let other people grope you. You're my girlfriend!

" "I see you've finally remembered? So it worked out for me, right?! Are you going to spend more time with me than with your friends?

" "Yes, because I don't want you to end up like me," Bartek said, his voice changing. It was as if he'd suddenly sobered up…

"You have no control over this!" You didn't give in to my pleas and persuasions either. Besides, I won't change my behavior until you break away from this company and kick the habit!" I snapped.

"What habit?! Worry about yourself, because right now, you're the one falling into it! You'll find out what a mess it is. I can't stop using without a specialist's help, but you do. Give it up while you still can! You don't have to prove anything to me anymore. Think about it! You yourself told me about health and money. But you'll do whatever you want. I have to go. I'll pick you up tomorrow at 8 p.m. Bye!"

I refused to be convinced, but the fear remained, forcing me to limit my drug use. I liked this new life. Every day, parties, drinks, and Bartek! He was by my side the whole time. We raged until dawn. I'd come home completely drunk, often after "weed." I didn't take anything except joints, but Bartek did. Day by day, I watched him become a completely different person. He was very impulsive and aggressive. I didn't know how to help him. Sometimes I felt like I was helping him down the slope because I accepted his decisions. On the one hand, I felt sorry for him, but on the other, I wanted to be like him.

On our anniversary, we went completely overboard with the drugs. His parents were away for the whole weekend, so we could meet at his place and bring champagne, martinis, vodka, and beer. It was definitely too much for the two of us, but we drank.

"I love you, Ania!" he said before midnight, as I was about to head home. "Don't leave yet, please!

" "They'll be worried... My parents..." I said, tripping over a chair. I remember the stumble amusing me, but it didn't cause me any pain, although the next day I had a huge bruise there.

"Just a moment. They won't notice anything." He hugged me and looked me straight in the eyes. "I love you! Why haven't I met you before?"

"I love you!" I repeated in my mind. He'd said it for the first time. I felt dizziness and a pleasant shiver run down my spine. I didn't know what to say.

"I guess that's why we didn't meet before, so you could love me now..." I said, and Bartek cut me off with a kiss. "I love you too!" I finished after a moment.

"Don't leave me!" he pleaded. "I need you so much." He hugged me, looking as if he didn't want to let me go. Another moment and he would have burst into tears. I guessed it was the drugs. He was taking something secretly. But I didn't know what was happening. On top of that, I could hear the buzzing in my ears...

"I won't leave you! I don't have to go yet," I said, throwing my arms around his neck.

"Yes, sit down. Would you like something to drink?"

"No, I can't," I said, placing my hand on my forehead. My head was pounding, yet I remained conscious. I knew another drink would have a very bad effect on me.

"My head hurts too." But I have an anesthetic. Ecstasy. Would you like a sip? He smiled knowingly.

"I don't know. Have you already forgotten what you said?!" I said with a slight reproach.

"I haven't, but it's our celebration. Just this once. We should have some fun." He sat down next to me and pulled out a bag of two pills. He looked into my eyes as if trying to read something in them. Or rather, convey something he didn't want to say with words. His eyes said, "I want you." Then I felt a tingling in my stomach and a wave of heat spreading through my entire body. It was a sign... That's how his gaze affected me. I'd never felt this way around him before. The desire grew stronger with each passing second. I knew the drugs would only intensify the feeling. I didn't keep him waiting long. I took one pill and swallowed it.

"Just a few minutes now," he said. "It'll be alright."

Bartek kissed my neck, and then I felt a pleasant shiver run down my spine. For a moment, it felt stifling and I couldn't breathe, and then everything started spinning. Different than the first time. It was better because everything seemed so beautiful and I felt happy. I felt Bartek's touch all over my body, his scent. I knew nothing bad would happen to me as long as he was there. I was safe. Suddenly, the furniture disappeared and darkness fell. We found ourselves in a vast void. Just him and me. Just like in the movies.

It felt like a dream, but I hoped I'd never wake up. I remember him caressing my body and pulling off my blouse, while I unbuttoned his shirt. I ran my finger up and down his torso. Only now did I get a chance to see how perfectly built he was. The taut muscles, the smooth skin... Our eyes met again and again. There was something about it I hadn't noticed before. Bartek's kisses and caresses brought me even more pleasure than usual. For a moment, I felt like I was flying upwards. I felt cold. Suddenly, I started falling and crashed with a thud... I don't remember anything after that.

When I woke up next to him in the morning, I couldn't comprehend what had actually happened. I only realized it when he kissed me and hugged me. I slowly recalled fragments of the previous day. I didn't have the strength to get up because my head hurt so much. Besides, I was almost overcome with despair at the thought of making love that night. It wasn't what we did that was wrong, it was how we did it. I felt responsible for those events. I should have stopped Bartek, not agreed with him and reinforced his belief that he was doing the right thing by taking drugs.

"I love you!" he said in greeting. He was probably trying to cheer me up. He saw I wasn't beaming with enthusiasm. But the past couldn't be undone. I didn't want him to feel guilty.

"I love you too! I'm sorry I couldn't understand you.

" "No! I'm sorry! For everything... For starting to use, for how I behaved, and for dragging you into it. But it will change, I promise!" Bartek said. He clearly felt the same way.

"I hope so, honey, but we can't change what happened. We both don't have a clear conscience..." I said, trying to get up.

"Maybe, but it started with me. I'll start getting treatment!

" "I've heard that before, Bartek," I said resignedly. "I'm not going to keep an eye on you." You have to want to change that. I'd be happy if you started seeing a doctor. It's just a shame you came to that conclusion so late.

"I was stupid! Forgive me!" he said, lowering his gaze. He was silent for a moment. "If I'd known I could lose so much, then… Believe me, I didn't mean any harm. It's my foolish ambition and my desire to fit in. The most important person in my life is suffering because of it… What will happen to you?

" "Don't worry about me," I sighed. "We just need to agree on something. No alcohol, no drugs. And most importantly, we support each other! So that neither of us ever makes that mistake again.

" "Yeah, you're right. What about…?!

"What?

" "Well… about… tonight? It was stupid. We practically don't remember any of it…" he said.

"Yes, but how exactly do you know I don't remember anything, huh? Maybe I remember everything," I started to tease him. I didn't want this situation to turn into the world's greatest tragedy.

"Impossible! It was all too much...

" "It would have been different sober..." I grieved.

"We'll make up for what we missed," he said, wrapping his arm around me. "Then we'll plan everything in detail and there won't be any disappointment!

" "And how are you going to tell your family?

" "I don't know yet, but I'll definitely do it... I'll do it for you. It doesn't matter what they say."

He planted a passionate kiss on my lips.

I don't know how long Bartek will stay drug-free, but I hope it lasts as long as possible. He's cut off contact with those friends, and that's half the battle. We want things to be normal. But what does that mean? Someone who behaves normally follows certain rules accepted by society. Stereotypes? Good upbringing? Or maybe something else? For me, "normal" means by Bartuś's side!!! No matter what...

THE END

Dolls

I woke up suddenly. I started putting on my slippers. They didn't match my nightgown. Never mind. Something was pushing me forward. Like a hand was burning my back. I stopped at the edge of the bed.

A moment ago, I'd seen her clearly. A plastic face with painted-on blushes. Rounded legs and arms without defined fingers. Lips curled as if ready for a kiss. Two blond pigtails. (The other one was a brunette.) A moment ago, she'd brutally ripped me from my sleep and ordered me to get out of there. She made me put on light high slippers with my cotton teddy bear shirt and pushed me forward until I barely stopped at the edge of the bed. Then I knew I had to obey her. Now I didn't have to.

My husband lay beside me. Sleeping. Smiling. Motionless. Why hadn't he seen her, heard her? Why hadn't he woken up when I started dressing?

I knew the other brunette doll had to be somewhere.

I took off my shoes. I began to search the kitchen, every nook and cranny. I nervously rummaged through the groceries in the cupboards, threw everything out of the fridge. I moved the furniture, peered into the air vents. I crawled across the floor. Nothing.

Finally, I found her in the cupboard behind the bathtub. Her small, nasty mouth was twisted into a half-smile. I grabbed her leg and started shaking her with all my might.

My neighbor came running, alerted by the noise. He was holding a blonde woman. Dead. Her face was scarred. He said he'd pulled her from the sewer pipe. We threw the two bodies out the window. We decided to pretend we weren't the perpetrators of this murder. Besides, to other people, they were just dolls.

Suddenly, something rustled under the armchair. I froze in terror. I knew there were only two of them, but I felt a vague fear that robbed me of the will to continue living. Should I be afraid of them forever?

My neighbor pushed the armchair back. It's just a mouse. I sensed I was stronger. That I had defeated them. No one would ever direct my movements again.

The neighbor came home.

I jumped into bed. I looked at my husband. His face was frozen in a grim smile. It was cold. He was dead. Such was the price of my peace. The dolls woke me up to invade his sleep and kill him.

I went to the neighbor's. I pulled him out of the shower. His brother and mother don't like me. They think I'm a witch. But he's the only one who understands me. I'm afraid to be alone.

Engagement

If he leaps toward the stars, will he fall back into the mud?

You can't be sure of anything in life; the entire fair is a discovery of certain patterns, the apparent equality of day and night, the spinning wheel of coffins and cradles, green trees and lizards, what they eat and what they shit on. If you've raised your hand a hundred times, do you think it will always be like this?

Elesibrote stands under a shattered oak tree, circling the anthill faster and faster. Ritual chants from nearby huts introduce further unrest into the tangle of thoughts he considers his very being. He searches for whispers emerging from behind the marshy bushes. Uncertainty.

So he continues to listen to the sounds of the lumberjacks' drums. Only the chopping of wood, the brutal thrashing of the village lame woman, sent out for years to collect sewage from the barn, permeates his posture. Still, Hagentia doesn't enter their hideout with a secret snap, a birchbark roll that, in its simplicity, signifies consent. Old Bisamta must, after all, give her consent.

The elders have been deliberating since evening, the ruling of the Great Council shrouded in secrecy, yet Elesibrote has an unquenchable premonition that matters will unfold according to his desire. During a diabolical ritual, hurling delicate veils of lust from all sides, they fan the candle flame until the tiniest wicks of Evil Iffe's body are completely consumed.

Evil Iffe raises her robes on the hilltop and announces to her surroundings the lowing of cow thighs. The servants, usually inscrutable in their musings, now organize themselves into an unwritten hierarchy, led by the eldest, with an inseparable staff that gives courage amid matters as mysterious as a female's desires.

Elesibrote gazes at the stars, ancient fathers, trying to discern within them a portentous symbol whose glow would give him strength. The nightlong wait unsettles his mind, hundreds of treacherous questions arising, unworthy of a nobleman's soul.

The first apprentice ascends the mountain with his trouser legs rolled up. Male tradition and destiny propel him to his destination, but when he sees the gaping cunt of Evil Iffe, he ceases his pro-church meditations and begins to fuck, fuck with all his might, like a wild boar, like a repulsive beast with only one purpose in life.

Elesibrote tries to resist the temptations of his loins, but what can the youthful fervor of a falconer do? After all, stalking the crickets, catching them, and cruelly cutting them into pieces with a dagger couldn't help. Killing is fun, but only for a moment. Then the emptiness returns, and one must settle for another fairy tale—fucking or dancing with vodka, that's all the village has to offer.

He doesn't want to kill; a trampled cricket flickers, trampled under his sandal, as the last of its amusements. He needs something else, he must learn to ignore the howl of Evil Iffe, whose pleasure manifests itself in a flurry of moaning shots into the forest wilderness.

The first apprentice returns exhausted to the valley, rubbing his cock and suggesting the meeting to the passing peasants with a lascivious flick of his tongue. The dripping sweat speaks volumes; in fact, he hasn't worn himself out like that since fourteen years ago, when, using the cover of darkness, he raped the miller's son in the barn.

Elesibrote slowly clenches his fists, turning his eyelids into hiding places. The retching groups of sentries are damned irritating; may the loud footsteps of these fools be damned, how dare they show signs of joy while he waits... While he awaits the judgment of the lewd, wild-eyed shaman, owed the truth to him, Hagentia, yet still unpredictable, still slithering like a poisonous snake.

For the first time in this night full of ghosts, this terrifying thought crossed his mind. And if... No, this tower is too armed, it's because of those torches climbing the hilltop and summoning the spirits of angry fathers to debauchery. It's a mad darkness, and cawing crows whisper sinful ideas into your ears. Old Bisamta is indeed cruel, taking revenge on life for its ugliness, for the pimples covering her cheeks, but she's also greedy. And yet he gave ducats. Lots of ducats.

Evil Iffe continues the dwarfs' dance, cackling maliciously, foaming at the mouth. Delighted as a rabid dog, biting the necks of all travelers weary of sex. Tonight is her night; during the drinking, the peasants don't think, devils hurl them against the walls amidst an orgie of church bells, forcing them to do things that even savages wouldn't do without shame.

Elesibrote averts his face, unable to watch the copulation any longer, his gaze falling straight to the chimney of the Great Council, from which smoke billows without the slightest change. Trying to guess what the elders are now discussing now makes his throat raw; he already sees a woman's shadow in the window, probably Hagentia with white curls. Just to close his ears to the moans, the rasping panting of the simpletons and the maiden, he can listen to anything, but not this. Not this, not things beyond human endurance...

He doesn't want to, he resists, but he already knows. The evil spirit in his chest begins to seriously consider climbing the mountain peak, he desires this, it will lull his vigilance into dilemmas, he will stop considering the possible responses of old Bisamta.

A gnawing intention demanded its rights, tugging at his chest with the sharp fangs of a wolf, urging and whispering, "Do it, she can't see, you'll find relief, waiting is beyond human capacity." And suddenly he remembered the times when, walking among the spring leaves, they would tell of lovers' betrayals. Elesibrote, the noble falconer, had grown accustomed to believing that no great harm was done by leaping into another bed, licking fortunes from another thigh. The answer of Hagentia, the youngest of the shaman's many daughters, terrified him so much that from that morning on, he dared not sully even his dreams, those lands full of wonders.

The seemingly endless, at first, multitude of thirsty male bodies is exhausted. The vodka and the late moonlight, interspersed with the gloomy song of the eagle owl, slowly sap the last vestiges of strength left after the harvest. The peasants have fallen asleep on the ground, in the mud, among dogs kicking with hunger, begging for another small morsel of food. And Evil Iffe continues to sing her song of lust; tonight is her night, after all, that one night of the year.

Elesibrote continues to ponder the sound of those sentences, saying that the body is a prison for the soul, and the desire of the body is irrelevant. But Hagentia stopped dead in her tracks, crushed the rowan twigs in her hand, and whispered in a terrifying voice

, "If someone does something wrong to someone," her eyes glowed in the darkness like a holy image, "then that evil will one day return to them..."

The message itself wasn't so terrible; he had heard it many times from his grandmother, but back then it had been an empty platitude, another of those fables about the unification of confused senses. Now the gods had delivered it; at the moment of speaking those words, an ancient truth, he clearly felt the energy vibrating in the bushes, as if an army of evil spirits stood behind him, ready at any moment to avenge his betrayal. Hagentia is a star from the sky, her every word glittering for all time, coiling around white curls.

Evil Iffe is urging. A naked body glides among the protruding treetops, reflecting the dark shadow from the foot of the hill, tempting the distraught falconer, leaving him with no other choice. Forcing.

He doesn't know how it happened; his memory holds no moments between the thought, the breaking of the vertical cross, and the moment he touched the woman's thighs. In that moment, he is a powerless machine, a cart rushing forward, carried by horses, with no more talk than a girl being fucked by drunken old men.

He lies on the woman's body, clutching the folds of a belly spilling out from under torn rags, scorched by nights heated by the howling of a wolf pack. Pleasure, immense pleasure, flowing into every corner of the man, blinding him with a lightning whip devised for the delight of the poor. Between the thighs, there is no turning back, no spells will make him turn back, not even Hagentia's cries, creeping between the handfuls of thoughts.

Once inside, feeling the soft leather mattress that fits better than sand, he loses himself in the rush, disappearing between the moaning lips of the queen of kings, who has ruled for centuries across all the glaciers. The rhythmic movements of her hips, so extraordinary, each of them threading him onto the needle of salvation, bringing him closer to the earth-shaking storm, whose lightning bolts will soon strike the earth.

Iffe craves kisses; they're the most honorable candy that falls from the lord's table. From her girlhood, when she'd go out to fuck everyone in the bushes, she'd dreamed of unattainable kisses like her, of the homage bestowed upon ladies in ballads. Such was the unwritten agreement—young men lost the cursed yoke of virginity, while she, behind a closed pair of eyelids, grasped the due tribute.

Bad boys learned, after many trials, to hold her neck so artfully, so deftly, that she couldn't raise her head to their lips and sully her with a kiss. They laughed at her clumsy attempts, filled with stifled tears, and told each other legends, calling her a dishtowel.

Elesibrote didn't harm the girls; in his boyish shyness, he learned to respect them by blushing, treating each of them as superior by birth to the male pack. Pressing his neck to the ground can't get past the orders; he just turns his head, fleeing the sow, drooling insultingly. And she jumps higher and higher.

He feels perfectly that at the moment of the kiss, his betrayal will no longer be graced by the eternal male law of fucking; it will be more, an unquestionable personalization of the object of his fuck, a choice of another, no matter if it's for the blink of an eye. The kiss is a magical temptation, a treacherous snake slithering across the path of the princess's castle. Another inert stone, interrupting the flow of pleasure, hangs around his neck the way beekeepers used to extract swaths of honey from decayed hives. Iffe comes dangerously close to his mouth, causing an inexplicable yet perfectly clear sensation. Something whispers in both ears that with every inch closer to the kiss, the specter of his betrothal with Hagentia recedes. His imagination suggests scraps of bleeding flesh, on the surface of which the Grand Council forbids marriage. And despite the further steps he takes in the village whore's garden, he can't shake this terrible premonition.

So he grabs Iffe by the neck, pressing her harder to the ground, imbuing his movements with a more decisive power, reminding him of the whipping of a washerwoman, a thief. He dominates, he is the true master in this moment, he can calmly strangle her like a sick bitch unfit to guard the cottage, and yet he himself feels strangled, more intensely than ever, strangled by Iffe's gripping legs, by this magical night of demons, by the village elders' meetings.

"If someone does something wrong to another, that evil will one day come back to them..."

The wailing words from the holy face pierce powerfully, precisely at the moment sparks shoot into the barn, the axe strikes a sawn-off board with the clamor of a bear. He leaps from the arms of the harlot, spattered with fresh semen, delighted with the unexpected gift that will enable him to produce a noble offspring, and runs into the forest, wanting to scream, wanting to howl and beg the gods for forgiveness.

Cursed desires, for which one's hands were broken three times in the mill as a child! Untamed tongues of flame, consuming will and commands, climb the infernal ladder, leading to another humiliation, another moment ruled by other forces! Will vanishes with the movement of potatoes spouting from the fire, scorched to ash in the flames. Elesibrote has no spiritual existence.

Amidst the scurrying thoughts, there's the faint sound of breaking branches, a sign of the approach of a being unable to deceive his trained hearing. He leaps to his feet, trying to conceal from his fiancée what he's just done. He wipes the remnants of his seed from himself with nearby leaves, assumes a warrior's stance, and presents a stony face, watching for the guest in his terrible hiding place.

But this is not Hagentia, it is old Bisamta dressed in rags, holding in her right hand a severed head with white curls, from which persistent drops of blood drip, coloring the ground red, although in the moonlight many would call this color black.