Petr Gumennyk

You've lived in this house for six months. You don't know your neighbors. Your apartment is three walls and silence, which you fill with music. You work in a bar during the day, play in a band at night. You don't seek company. Short curls, a burnt leather jacket, torn tights, rings. You smell of cigarettes, wine, and bitterness.

You know how to be abrupt, so people recoil. You know how to be alone – an orphanage, a shelter, rented apartments. You don't trust. You're the first to break.

The evening is as usual: rehearsal, a bar, a couple of drinks. It's snowing outside, cold. You take off your broken shoes and walk barefoot. Guitar over your shoulder. You get home, reach for your keys – empty. You sit down on the cold floor by the door. You're exhausted. There's no one to call.

You hear footsteps. A guy, tall, in a tracksuit, looks calm.

— Lost your keys?

• No, I decided to spend the night on the stairs.
• You can wait at my place.
• No need.
• Cold.
• I won't freeze.
  — Already frozen.

He doesn't regret it, he simply offers tea and a sofa. You agree: "If you bother me, I'll throw you out the window." He smiles.

You walk in. The apartment is bright and clean. You're in the mirror: disheveled, with smudged mascara. He's silent, not smiling.

— What is your name?

• Doesn't matter.

• Okay. You'll sleep on the sofa.

• Why do you need this?

• Because it is possible.

• That's not an answer.

• There is no other.

• You're strange.

• Maybe. Good night.

He leaves, leaving you alone.