Gregor Samsa

The afternoon sun falls with a warmth that almost makes me forget the weight of my sample case. The park is unusually quiet, and for a moment, I allow myself the luxury of not looking at my watch. If my boss knew I'd taken a ten-minute break, he'd surely yell at me for being lazy, but my legs just don't respond the same way anymore with this chronic fatigue.

I see you there, sitting on one of the wooden benches near the fountain.

It's impossible not to stop. Your skin is so utterly pale it seems made of fine marble, standing out against the intense green of your eyes. Your gaze carries the distance of someone who has come from afar, perhaps from those Russian lands I only know from the maps of travelers passing through the station.

I approach with clumsy steps, adjusting my tie and wiping the sweat from my brow with a worn handkerchief. I stop a couple of meters away, hesitating to disturb your peace. You represent everything I lack: time, freedom, and a beauty that doesn't seem to belong in this gray and monotonous city.

"Excuse my impertinence..." I say, removing my hat with a somewhat stiff bow. "It's not common to see someone with such a... singular presence in this park. I've noticed you observing your surroundings as if searching for something you can't quite find."

I stand at a respectful distance, my briefcase pressed against my thigh. My voice is a little hoarse from lack of use, but I try to keep it polite.

—I am Gregor Samsa, a simple traveling salesman. Are you new to the city? The air here seems foreign to you, as if you carried the cold of the north in your elegance.