SZURSZURSZURSZUR

…

The tram creaked mercilessly. At every turn, even the slightest, the rusty car joints began to go haywire, and the wheels behaved as if, out of hatred for the rails that held them in steel shackles, they wanted to cut them with their sharp edges. So what if it was two o'clock in the middle of the night? The noise only doubled, and lights flickered on in every new window. But the tram felt no shame and had no intention of interrupting its frenzied production of noise.

No one was sitting inside. Or rather, almost no one, because the last seat at the end of the second car was occupied by a rather sober middle-aged man. Just because he was drunk didn't mean he was some unkempt bum—no way, nothing of the sort. He just liked a drink, that's all.

So he rode alone on a tram, its eyes deliberately slicing through the darkness surrounding the city. As he rode, the only thought that crossed his mind was a terrible irritation: how can we be a provincial capital when we have trams running at night? In every self-respecting city, buses roam the streets at night, not… At that moment, this sole passenger on the night tram realized that this thought, which had been haunting him for a long time, was beginning to paralyze and terrify him beyond measure. Indeed, it is what it is, and there's no changing it – this truth, this axiom, practically knocked him off his seat, and the thought of being ashamed of his city depressing him completely.

It was still some distance to his stop, and yet the tram stopped, ah… a new passenger. How is he not ashamed to travel on such a means of transport at this hour? What a character, flashed through Andrzej's agitated mind.

The new passenger was a bit strange in general; he acted as if he wasn't entirely sure if he was doing what he should, and his face showed faint signs of a brief but turbulent internal struggle. Andrzej stared with bleary eyes at this seemingly dreamlike figure, and the thought occurred to him: why on earth was this man completely sober at such a late hour? Another thing that struck Andrzej as out of place. Oh, how unhappy he must be, because I don't believe he's sober of his own free will. I don't believe at all that there's anyone in the world who is sober of their own free will; that would seem absurd.

Andrzej's eyes were still glued to the newcomer's posture, while he seemed to have gained some confidence and began to approach the drunken man. It was clear he was determined and wanted to get it over with. When Andrzej realized this, he felt a little frightened again, as he didn't know the night passenger's intentions, and the latter was already quite close and had clearly concluded that a longer wait would be highly inadvisable. So he decisively pulled his ID card from his pocket and said in a forceful voice that brooked no argument:

"Tickets for inspection, please."

The voice was cold, composed, and completely unexpected. This wasn't the first time Andrzej had returned from a party at this hour, and he fully expected everything that might await him on an empty night street or on an empty tram. Now he knew there was one thing he had never anticipated: a nighttime ticket inspection. Despite everything, he didn't lose his cool and maintained his characteristic composure. Finally, the long-developed rule would be useful:

"Bi... bbbill..."

The rule, however, was useless. In this state, he didn't really feel up to spitting out more words. Andrzej was simply really drunk. And, truth be told, he secretly hoped this would be his saving grace. However, he was gravely mistaken, for the controller might not have been overconfident, but he was exceptionally tenacious, and despite all the effort he had put into it, he led the stowaway to where he needed to be.

When he regained consciousness, his naked body was being mercilessly lashed by an icy jet of water, which penetrated every inch of his body with clockwork precision. And there was no mercy. This sobering up finally backfired: Andrzej couldn't figure out where he was for the next hour.

Then they told him to sleep. He accepted this order with relief. His head fell heavily onto the unearthly hard mattress, but despite everything, he seemed to feel a little better; he even began to think again. For a brief moment, a thought-question tormented him: which was harder, his head or the mattress? He didn't know, really, he didn't know. Perhaps he would finally find a solution to this perplexing question if he realized where he was, but for now, that was out of the question.

His eyes filled with a colorful mist, his thoughts vanished into sweet nothingness.

"Get up!" A peasant roar woke him. He immediately sat up on the mattress, which now seemed even harder. For a moment, it seemed to him that he was home, and that he had plenty of new strength prepared for this new day. No, a terrible mistake in his predictions. He decided to get up, and the higher his head rose, the greater the pain seemed to burst through it. He was quite surprised to learn that he had fallen asleep in his clothes, and a moment later he realized he wasn't home, or at least not his own. The next thing he noticed were all the drunks around him. What the fuck are they doing here? And so it slowly dawned on him that he had spent the night in a sobering-up cell. For the first time in his life. Unfortunately, failures befall everyone. However, he wasn't given the chance to contemplate it, as a man led him before a man who… "

We didn't find any documents on you."

"I'm not wearing..." Andrzej couldn't speak, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his lips began to crack from excessive dryness. He accepted the glass of water offered by a man like a long-awaited salvation.

"Can you finish now, please?" a man urged him. "

I'm not wearing it so I can always lie, you understand." "

We checked your identity. Your neighbor, who also slept here today, recognized you. We know full well that you're not Andrzej, but Gotfryd Bielewicz, residing at 18/3 Długosza Street. I hope I never see you here again. Here's your ticket—you can go.

Ticket? What the hell ticket?" a thought quietly flashed through Gotfryd's troubled mind. But he didn't want to ask, because the man's expression didn't indicate any success in the conversation.

He had to leave. Get as far away from this place as possible. To get to his apartment and settle his exhausted body into the fluffy depths of fragrant bedding. Yes, escape was the only sensible way out of this messed-up situation.

"Mr. Gottfried!" A piercing, shrill voice pierced his skull, leaving a fist-sized hole through which his sleep-deprived, drunken brain slowly began to seep out, its sticky tentacles causing incredible pain as they touched Gottfried's temples with their stinging tendrils. "

Please wait!" Ugh, another blow. This time it struck a little higher and lodged deep, reaching the back of his head, where it began to rotate on its axis at the speed of light. His brain was everywhere. Split into tiny fragments, resting on the walls of every room in this accursed place. And he, broken in half by pain, crawled and crawled, scraping all his belongings from the walls and trying to re-insert them into his split skull, which was bleeding more and more and seemed to be saying with all its might: - Hurts... boo... hurts...

"Oh, Mr. Gotfryd," Grzegorz Gomler said quietly. "Don't overdo it with the hangover." He patted him on the shoulder and offered his neighborly services.

The moment Gotfryd realized that the calling voice belonged to his neighbor, he understood that such a thing as escape simply ceased to exist. Snap! And it was gone. In its place was the prospect of a laborious return home accompanied by Gomler, who would surely be saying something. And it wasn't that Gotfryd disliked his neighbor—no, not at all, they were very fond of each other; one could even speak of a kind of friendship. And a friendship of the highest order, one that didn't require mutual confidences, frequent meetings, or unnecessary pleasantries, but offered a hundred percent guarantee of support, assistance, and discretion in every situation. It was simply a simple lack of desire to interact with anyone, let alone open one's mouth. Although, on the other hand, Gotfryd could finally ask someone the question that was nagging him:

"Grzegorz, what did I get this ticket for... well, did I get it?"

"It's a damn long story, but in short it goes like this: at night, on the tram, you encountered a traffic control. Yes, yes, I realize it's impossible, but it's the truth nonetheless. And it's because of her that you slept in daycare today instead of at home." "

For the first time in my life..." his voice was hollow and revealed nothing more about Gotfryd's thoughts than what had been said.

"Yes, yes, they'll send you a bill for that too. And a big one, oh, a big one."

"Why did you give me my real contact information?"

"You should be grateful, it's the only way I avoided trouble on your behalf. Now they'd drag you to all sorts of strange places just because of your name and your residence. Man, they already have their own phone there, oh yes.

"And what if they believed this Andrzej?"

"What are you talking about, Gotfryd? Them? Were they supposed to swallow it? No, that's completely out of the question. You can't even think about it.

" "Okay. Thanks then."

And so they reached their apartment building.

They didn't exchange a single word in the elevator. Both of their throats went dry.

Gotfryd got off on the sixth floor (one floor earlier than Grzegorz), turned the key in the lock, and was home. In his small studio apartment with a kitchen, bathroom, and a large double bed that still couldn't wait for a full bed. Nevertheless, immersing himself in it, even alone, had always been one of his greatest pleasures, let alone under circumstances like today.

Morpheus closed his eyes once again...

…a comfortable bed, though not too large, one might venture to say a bit cramped, especially since he was lying in it with Jeremy Irons, who, out of the blue, was dying – some kind of cancer or something like that, but it wasn't a disease that caused total impotence, as evidenced by Jeremy's constant clinging to Godfrey – his hands constantly landing on his chosen lover's head, gently stroking his back, brushing his cheeks, and his foot sliding along his muscular calf. Godfrey did everything the space of the bed would allow him to avoid any closer contact with Jeremy. He couldn't bear the thought of spending the night with a man for a simple reason – he wasn't gay, and masculine physicality disgusted him, and even the argument that a man would be there only for lack of a partner didn't help – on the contrary, this argument only increased Godfrey's disgust and made him even more eager to fight this intruder.

And yet. Godfrey agreed. And he did so, one might say out of pity, because the argument of Irons's imminent death prevailed. He agreed, even becoming more enthusiastic and taking the initiative. He placed his open hand on the famous actor's chest and was pleasantly surprised by the unexpected smoothness he felt beneath his fingers. He couldn't bring himself to kiss him yet, so he just settled for a hug. But that was the last straw. Jeremy must have misjudged the timing and rushed too far, because Godfrey, when he felt the gentle brush of a man's hand on his testicles, immediately turned his back on Irons…

Phew, phew, phew!

Phew…

Gottfried wiped the sweat from his brow with a sheet, and Morpheus now sat in the corner near the ceiling, watching, hoping he could pull off another nasty prank on the hungover man. However, the prank fizzled out, as Gottfried couldn't fall back asleep. He tossed and turned until finally, driven to his limits, he got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Oh, it's good that I have a vacation. Two more days. Tomorrow, I mean, today… damn, only one more day then…

The not-so-optimistic prospect, which had initially looked better, now depressing him completely. But then what would he do tomorrow? Tonight he'd sleep, of course, if he managed it, but I guess exhaustion would eventually triumph over the gay fears of his dream dreams. And tomorrow? Well, he'd probably be alone with a book. It's always like this: one day in large company (usually too large), and the rest alone.

Abandoned.

He was adept at wallowing in self-pity, and the worst of it was that he actually loved it. And that's harmful. It harms his companions most of all.

Dream, dream, dream. Please, Morpheus, come down from this ceiling and come into my head. Make yourself at home there, but please, don't hurt me, you see the state I'm in. Morpheus, my dear, bring me solace, even if only for a moment. At least don't turn away from me.

He fell asleep.

Finally.

But not for long.