To the horizon

He glanced at his watch every now and then, though he wasn't quite sure why. He wasn't in a hurry. No one was waiting for him. He wasn't going anywhere. But he stubbornly checked the time every few moments, as if to make sure the battery hadn't run out. Or perhaps he wanted reassurance that time was still flowing, that it hadn't stopped, and was heading where it always had, regardless of whether anyone might disagree. The ticking of the clock blended with the hum of air between floors.

The elevator slowly descended. He preferred moving in the opposite direction, because only then could he be sure everything was okay. And when it descended slowly, how could one know if the mechanism was working properly? It didn't have to stop on the ground floor. It could crash into the basement, and then it would be clear that it had only been sliding down the shaft, and any notions of the ropes holding it up were an illusion. Every morning began with these fears. Every morning he got off safely on the ground floor.

No sound penetrated the elevator through the soundproof walls, but he knew that as soon as he stepped outside, he would be greeted by the hateful roar of car engines. In the morning, every vehicle sound carried aggression. Drivers, jolted awake and crammed into tight cars, stared at everything around them with disgust and a desire to escape, etched in their eyes. Their only thought was the desire to get back to their workplace, as far from the streets as possible. Everyone was thinking about that. No matter what job they held, they simply wanted to be as far away from here as possible. The cars themselves, also awake after a frosty night, snarled as if the state of hibernation they had longed for was their dream. It was amusing how these technologically packed vehicles rebelled against what they were designed for. With their last mechanical strength, they resisted the morning awakening. And when they finally gave in, they demonstratively demonstrated their dissent at every opportunity. Most often, in the middle of intersections.

The glass walls of the elevator allowed him to admire the roofs of buildings. The city, cooled by morning dewdrops, steamed from the apartment building chimneys and the water resting in the hollows between the red and matte-silver roof tiles. Skyscrapers and lower office buildings surrounded every street, every square, and every solitary tree. From the elevator, he saw only silver-gray monuments filling the entire space to the horizon, with only here and there glimpses of the remains of former tenement houses. Every morning, when he woke to the distant sun, he tried to see something more than buildings in the distance. But the city filled everything. A labyrinth of buildings stretching to the blurred horizon. Look the other way—the city. Climb onto the roof—nothing but other roofs. The streets led nowhere beyond the urbanized area. Only the city, the city, the city...

That's why he moved into the attic of a skyscraper – there, the horizon wasn't visible either, but the sky wasn't obscured by the mirrored walls, which only reflected the delicate cloud structures. Perhaps that's why the cars rebelled – with their mechanical instincts, they sensed they wouldn't be able to escape the asphalt maze of roads and reflect the sky. So they stopped, growling menacingly.

But while the elevator was still descending, he savored the moment of silence that preceded everyday life. When he stopped on the eighteenth floor, he noticed that in the skyscraper opposite, people were already slowly settling down to their desks. Computer screens glowed, which (along with the glass walls) were the only window to the world. Controlling the flow of money, capital, and contracts wasn't so absorbing that you couldn't use the internet to look up places you could go. Or at least places you might want to go. A man leaned back against the transparent barrier of the wall, staring at the monitor screen, and in this suspended position—somewhere between a near-suicidal fall out of the window and carefree lounging on a virtual beach—he waited for the chime of an instant messenger to announce the arrival of his next order. In the mirror of the skyscraper wall, he could also see his building and his elevator lumbering down. He waved at his reflection.

Every morning, he watched the snail-like traffic on the streets. He knew that once the elevator reached the ground floor, he would emerge onto the dewy sidewalks and stroll along the shop windows, hearing only the hum of traffic in the background. He would probably look around the neighborhood. He liked to imagine in detail what the day would be like after he stepped out of the elevator. He decided to move to the right side of the sidewalk so he wouldn't constantly bump into people walking in the opposite direction. A woman in front of him would be dragging her feet, clearly unable to accelerate any further. At first, he'd want to pass her, but then… Then… He'd give up. In this district, it was common courtesy not to pass anyone. Not men in suits, who could be interrupted while talking on their cell phones, nor women in their official uniforms (gray and navy, sometimes greenish, with a stiff collar, black decorative buttons, and a matching knee-length skirt). Women weren't to be disturbed for exactly the same reason as men in suits. They were the ones responsible for GDP growth, and harming the national economy was punishable by law. Unfamiliar people would flash by the buildings he sometimes caught with his jacket sleeve, staring at passersby. Mostly beggars. But in the morning, the owners of cafes and pubs would also come out to check on the traffic and see if everything was going as it had been the day before. And a week ago, and two weeks ago. And a month ago. Was the weather the same? It is. Did people get up at the same time? They did. "Time to open."

As he passed sleepy people, he discovered pleasure in observing the bartenders' wet sleeves, dampened by wiping the bar and mugs. Wrinkled aprons, pulled from under the counter, signaled their readiness for work. Newspaper vendors appeared alongside the bartenders. With newspapers slung over their shoulders, they set off for their quarters near the centers. But the newsboys never stood in the center of the market square, but on its outskirts. By the central fountain, traffic was too heavy, and someone could always snatch a newspaper without paying. On the outskirts, however, the crowds were smaller – a chase had a greater chance of success, and avoiding suspicious individuals was also easier. The center of the market square by the fountain was a danger zone. In such a crowd, you'd never know whether someone was smiling friendly or ironically.

He, too, only approached the fountain in the hottest weather. When you longed to feel the drops falling on your face and cooling your cheeks. A bit of respite. Only women steered clear of the water—it could smudge their makeup. They preferred the scorching red of the sidewalks. And once he passed the fountain… he would turn toward the shaded alleys. There, the sidewalks didn't evaporate the water collected at night so quickly, and there were few people standing there. They mostly lounged in the restaurant gardens, enjoying a beer. And a few steps from the restaurant, he encountered women relaxing. In their (more or less) revealing outfits, they sat under umbrellas (this always surprised him—after all, there was shade there). He would admire out of the corner of his eye the delicate patterns on their tights, their slightly loose hair covered in some shiny substance. He knew nothing about women's cosmetics or any kind of jewelry, so he had no idea what made their hair sparkle so. After passing the women, he would walk for a dozen or so steps through the void. The tenement stairs would be deserted, the windows covered with curtains, obscuring anything but their own reflections in the glass.

And then more cafes would appear, and behind (or in front of) them, more groups of women. Laughing, lonely, seemingly focused on their own conversations or on juice sipped through a straw. The gray of the shadowed alley would wander across their faces, making it impossible to see their pupils. One girl would comb her hair, matted with hairspray, disheveled, with her fingers. Another would jiggle her foot to the rhythm of jazz music coming from one of the cafes. The faint wail of a trumpet would make the gray on the girls' faces blend perfectly with their colorful outfits, which here became only black and white.

The elevator's interior also lost its color. Though filled with light, it was so ascetic that there was no room for color. With each floor down, it lost more and more of its whiteness, only to be plunged into darkness on the ground floor, as the shadow of the neighboring building fell on the shaft. Inside, even the lines between individual elements were invisible.

It was similar with the girls' faces, which, heavily made up and covered in a thick layer of powder, took on the color of ash in the shadow of the skyscrapers. As if their countenances were merely cardboard stencils scorched by fire. Not yet completely ash-red, but already damaged. Though young, in the shadow of the skyscrapers they seemed to be half-asleep, their eyes beneath their painted eyelids mere sparkling dots. Similarly, their lips, though made up, seemed made of glass, were covered with an increasingly dense network of lines resembling fingerprints. On each of them, he would have spotted a mole—more or less outlined. On the cheek, chin, forehead, neck. Sometimes on the shoulder or hip (but only if the girl wore a short blouse). Mostly, these were fake moles—drawn on with some kind of crayon or glued on.

He laughed at the thought of spotting a girl without a mole at one of the cafes. He initially thought it was completely improbable. But ultimately—why not? After all, if the girls were painting their moles, one of them might have broken a pencil. Or forgotten to put it on. Or it might have fallen off. Eventually, he might have concluded that such black dots didn't make her look attractive at all.

She would have been sitting in a chair, in denim pants (and not a skirt like her friends). She would have been drinking her coffee calmly, waiting for the shadow to drift away and allow the sun to illuminate her face. Her lips would have been delicately defined, without any striking red or blue. He wouldn't have seen the color of her eyes, though. Perhaps that was why he would have decided to stop. The girls would have looked at him, their faces hidden in shadow.

The elevator shuddered. He, too, shuddered at the thought of the way the women standing there would have looked at him. How would they have reacted if he had moved toward the girl? Perhaps there would have been surprise in their eyes. Jealousy? Or contempt. Probably contempt. He liked it when people looked at him like that. He could live up to their expectations and behave as they desired. He wouldn't sit next to the girl. It wouldn't suit him. He wanted to see her in full sunlight, the rays gliding across her cheeks. He wanted only to extend his hand, but he would have to say something. A word was essential for her to follow him. Otherwise, she wouldn't rise from her seat. He would say two, three words at most. No more. No more needed. Two, three would be enough.

They would walk in the shade. For a long time, no bright spot would appear. Until finally, probably after ten minutes of walking, during which the girl would not speak once, he would find the pub's garden, basking in the sun. The thin wicker curtains didn't provide complete shade, allowing streams of sunlight to filter through the numerous gaps. They would sit at one of the tables in the corner. As they pulled out the chairs, dust would swirl in the air, shimmering in the sunlight like stars in the night sky—the same ones he saw every night through the glass roof of his apartment. The girl would sit with her leg slightly tucked under her. When the waitress approached, they would order a hot drink. But not coffee, for they were both already drinking one. The girl would play with the spoon, cupping the warm glass. It wasn't cold, but her fingers would stiffen, and the skin around her nails would thicken, as if they'd been scrubbed with soap for too long.

They would look around in silence for several minutes. The girl wouldn't speak. He had to start. The sounds of traffic would barely penetrate the wicker screens. He would finally feel the silence he had craved since leaving the elevator. He would tell the girl. She wouldn't react. Nothing she said was necessary. Her lowered head would betray her impatience. She would probably know he had noticed her reaction. He would try to concentrate. At least for a moment, for a moment... The girl would tap her nails against the glass, but he wouldn't notice. He would still be trying to see the color of her irises. But her lowered eyelids wouldn't allow it. In his pocket he carried a small pocket mirror, one he had once found in an old wardrobe. He would place it on the mirror table. The girl would look at the frame in surprise. Cautiously, as if unsure if she was allowed, she would approach the ornate frame with her fingers. She would stroke them, feeling the roughness of aged copper beneath her fingertips, and in the slightly dulled surface, she would see her own blurred reflection. "Nice," he would hear.

At that moment, as if burned by her own face, the girl has to pull her hand away. She hides one hand under the table, placing it on her thigh. "Do you like orange?" His question must surprise her. The girl looks at him warily. She thinks for a moment. She asks which orange he's referring to. For a moment, she recalls all the possible shades of that color. She tries to find their names.

"Do you know... Do you know the painting 'Dream'?" he would ask after a long moment of silence.

Her surprise amuses him. Now she has to search her memory for every painting she knows with that name. But she can't remember...

"Who painted it?"

The boy knows the answer. He knew it before he asked her. But at that moment, all his thoughts, all his knowledge, are rushing through his head so quickly that he can't answer immediately. The name suddenly slips away, as if trying to escape something, or as if making room for something else. Something that might be more important at the moment.

"Hodler... It's a picture of Hodler," he finally pins it on his chest.

She has a feeling the name won't mean much to her. Why should she know it? But then again, why should her ex be unfamiliar with it? After all, it's not that complicated. She might have heard it before. The arguments for and against are equally compelling.

"Her hair... more like brown... maybe red. But I don't know if you could say it's orange." Her soft voice is barely audible to him over the din of morning conversations.

The moment of stupefaction she's engulfing him stretches into long seconds. He refuses to agree, insisting that the color is unquestionably orange. But he's no longer sure – he's never had a knack for color. At this point, he doesn't know what surprises him more – the uncertainty of the color or the fact that the girl knows the painting he mentioned.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter..." – as if sensing his doubts – "I like that color..."

Her declaration, though anticipated, doesn't calm his mind. "It has to be orange," he thinks. "It has to." Meanwhile, the girl drains her drink. Still without lifting her head, sitting in a strange, prayer-like position, she stares at the empty bottom of the cup for a moment. Earlier, she had combed her hair with her fingers, loosening the stuck-together ends.

"Why do you ask?" the girl struggles to form a sentence.

"What color are your eyes?" she asks finally.

The girl doesn't move, just wraps her arms around her neck. She uttered a number.

"What does that mean?" he asked, not understanding her answer.

"That's for an hour.

" "But you didn't tell me...

" "For other things," she interrupted, "you have to pay extra."

He set the cup down. He glanced at the mirror on the table, but saw only the outline of her hand and the tips of her rather long hair.

"And only with you," she continued in a monotone voice. "No frills... Do you know what I mean?" She didn't look at the boy, though, clearly assuming she was making herself clear. "Someone else handles that. I don't. Do you need to tell you what the standard service is?" She still didn't lift her head, staring at the matte mirror frame.

The boy remained silent. He took out his wallet, checking something in it.

"Would you like another drink?" he asked casually.

The girl didn't answer. She simply cupped the cup in both hands. She began tapping her fingernails lightly on its porcelain surface. She wore a ring on her ring finger. The boy touched her hand lightly. He wanted to examine it, and since she didn't protest, he took her hand more firmly. He stared for a moment at the steel band and—most likely—the piece of plastic that imitated a precious stone. Although... He wasn't really sure if the girl's jewelry was fake. He didn't know much about jewelry, and this one—though unusual in appearance—must not be fake at all. He didn't ask her about it, though. The girl bent her fingers slightly, digging her nails into his palm. One was broken, and its jagged edge irritated the palm of his hand. Her touch was increasingly unpleasant, as her nails sank into his palm.

"What time did you get up this morning?" he asked.

"I haven't gone to bed yet..." he heard from behind slightly pursed lips.

He looked at her again. The sticky ends of his hair, the shirt slightly creased at the shoulders, and the dirty nails confirmed her words. For a moment, he sat still, staring into the mirror. He glanced at his wallet again. He paid the bill.

The girl would have waited for his word.

The girl would have waited for his word…

The girl waited for his word. He would have stood up. He would have walked slowly to the door, leaving the mirror with the girl. He probably forgot about it. At the door, he turned around. From there, he saw the girl raise her head. He couldn't see the color of her eyes, though, because the shadow of the screens obscured them. Only the reflection of the sun in the mirror would have illuminated her neck, highlighting the slowly pulsing artery and the slightly abraded skin on her chin.

He thought the elevator moved in the same rhythm as the blood pulsing. Each floor they passed was like a single heartbeat, the pulsation of the building's steel arteries. True, his heart was beating much faster this morning. It's always like this, when he wakes up with his eyes fixed on the glass ceiling, his heart begins to beat faster and faster. This morning's sight, watching the rising sun glide across the blue surface, evoked in him the same feeling as the sky in any other weather. He turned over, placing his hand on the opposite side of the bed. It was still warm. Somewhere, the music and words of Camus still echoed in his ears. Or Sartre. He wasn't sure. A soft voice spoke of them, but the memory of the music was stronger. The words faded, as they always do in the morning, when tight lips prevent them from emerging. On the warm spot next to him, he noticed numerous threads of different colors. They tangled and stuck to his fingers. He looked down at himself – "We slept in our clothes again," he said.

He pushed the words aside as the elevator stopped. He was buttoning his jacket when the doors opened. A light breeze from the square and the distant, furious hum of car engines greeted him, as they did every morning. In front of the building, just off the stairs, stretched a street, lost somewhere between skyscrapers, stretching to the horizon, all the way to the glass office building at the end of a vast square illuminated by the sun. The square resembled a stage illuminated by spotlights.