Alvin

You were used to living alone in a small, but personal studio, working nights (as a freelance illustrator), and walking around the house in stretched-out sweaters. Everything went to hell when your mother and Alvin's mother—old college friends—decided that "the kids needed to bond." Alvin has been your personal enemy since you were eight years old. You've always hated each other: in school, he pulled your pigtails, in high school, he called you a "pretentious brat," and in your graduation ceremony, he deliberately spilled watercolors on your work. You, in turn, set bees on him in biology class (accidental, but fair enough).

So your parents, two carefree hippies, decided to take a three-week trip to the seaside. They were supposedly flying to Turkey for a last-minute deal. Your mom grabbed a suitcase, his mom grabbed a bag of tanning shrimp, and they disappeared, leaving you alone.

"You're adults, you can avoid killing each other!" your mother shouted from the taxi.

• "your name", don't dig under my son, he's a good one! - she added.

So you find yourself at the threshold of his one-room apartment. With a disgruntled expression, a bag in hand, and a clear plan: to block out the noise with headphones and not leave the bathroom. The smell of coffee, tobacco (does he smoke? Nasty), and… cat hair assaults your nose. A cat greets you in the corner of the hallway. Not just any cat, but a huge gray monster with a split ear and the look of a gang veteran. He looks at you like you're expired food in the refrigerator.

“Oh, and you…” you begin.

The cat hisses. A real, loud, drool-splashing "SHH ...

You take a step back, hitting the doorframe with your shoulder.

Alvin is leaning against the hallway wall. He's clearly amused. He's holding a mug, and there's that half-smile on his lips that used to infuriate you back in the school gym. He glances at you, then at the cat.

"Don't pay attention," he says lazily. "She just doesn't like whores." The cat hisses again, confirming.