“When one morning Gregor Samsa awoke from troubled dreams…”

“Wait, wait! Can’t we do something else today?”

He tried not to show any signs of irritation, closed the small luxury volume — carefully tucking in the straw — and slowly lifted his eyes toward the camera. The face in the tiny window at the bottom of the screen still showed a childishly sulky expression, and both of them couldn’t help but giggle.

“Are you mad, Oinky? See what a petty bourgeois girl you’re dealing with? All she ever thinks about is one thing…”

“But we did this yesterday. I told you I need a bit more time to get used to it. I’m shy, what can I do?”

“Shy, my ass! And yet you moan like a porn star, you bashful boy! By the way, Kafka was one of the world’s greatest masturbators — did you know that? I’ve no clue who did his laundry, but it must’ve been tough. I’m a woman, I get these things. And you’re a great masturbator too. So, still mad at me?”

“Vainer, at the very least. If you can win me over with such basic tricks…”

“Simplicity is the most complex thing, babe. When you grow up a bit more, you’ll start to understand. For now, Kafka and Nietzsche are more than enough.”

“God, sis! You’re older by twelve months, but I outweigh you by twenty kilos. So who’s the real pig here, huh?”

She narrowed her eyes and gave him the look that always made him blush. Then she hugged herself tightly and whispered:

“I miss you, dummy. I miss you so damn much, that’s all. I want you, I want you, I can’t wait any longer! When are you finally coming back?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat without coughing and replied in a deliberately calm voice.

“According to my calendar, thirty days and a few hours left. But we agreed not to count them, remember?”

“Good thing I’m drowning in work — that’s the only thing that helps. Alright, enough talk. You ready? I’m wearing your favorite panties today — the black lacy ones.”

“Jesus Christ! Wait, wait — let me catch my breath.”

“No waiting! Come on, choose: which knee do you want first? The left one? Or maybe the right — if you lean toward right-wing ideas?”

“Well, I’m more of a centrist…”

She laughed so hard she almost spilled her coffee.

“God, what a clown I chose to fall in love with!”

He laughed joyfully and added:

“And a voyeur, on top of it.”

“I know, I know.”

She reached off-camera, clicked her mouse, and leaned back with half-closed eyes. From the speakers, Jane Birkin’s voice moaned: Je t’aime, je t’aime…

Her hand moved up, adjusting the camera angle. Downward, downward, ever lower. Beneath her T-shirt, the flat belly of a still-girlish body came into view. He started to pant, tucked his hands under his thighs, pressed down hard.

“Want me to tear them? And pretend it’s you?”

“How much do they cost?”

The camera abruptly swung back up, revealing a face twisted with restrained fury.

“What the hell, dummy? What kind of nonsense was that?”

“I was joking, of course. Just trying to keep it lively, you know?”

She lit a cigarette, nervously striking match after match.

“Hey, didn’t we agree you’d quit?”

“To hell with Europe!”

She leaned back, exhaled a massive cloud of smoke, flicked the ash without looking.

“You promised me something…” Her voice sounded like a copper bell stuffed with wool. “Didn’t you promise you’d try?”

“I am trying — what do you think?”

“Have you started working?”

“A… almost. Yesterday I wrote like… two hundred words…”

Silence. And smoke.

“I’m trying, honestly. No one changes in two days — you know that.”

“Tell me what’s in your fridge!”

“You’re kidding…”

“Right now! Do you hear me?”

“You mean?”

“Don’t dodge! Is there vodka?”

“Yes, but real Russian. The original.”

She slammed her fist on the table.

“I knew it… God, why do you punish me like this?”

She stood and began pacing.

“Listen now.”

He froze, trembling.

“I’ll give you one last chance. Last. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to sit down now and in no more than two hours, send me something that’ll make me cry. Like in the old days. If you manage — great. If not… I’ll leave you in God’s hands. I just want to see if you’re still capable of… anything. Agreed?”

“Yes, of course.”

She reached out — and the screen went black.

***

“My dearest sugar pie,

When you read this letter, I’ll already be with you, sunshine. I’ve learned a very old Chinese spell. When you hit a dead end, you don’t need to bang your head or search for a way out. All you have to do is walk up to one of the walls and draw a small door. A small door that leads to those you love. And then you just spread your wings and fly… through the little door. So when you finish reading, just open your window, my darling. Open your window and close your eyes…”

She screamed and lunged toward the computer. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she switched on the camera.

Then froze.

The clown mask was painted perfectly. Only a thin stream of foam from one corner of his mouth betrayed that something wasn’t quite right.

She sat down and lit a cigarette.

***

Fire, fire, fire. Long, bright yellow flames reach out with hungry hands. Flames below, flames above, flames everywhere. She doesn’t even try to run. She sits — the only thing still alive is her gaze — and slowly counts down the moments left until the end of this eternity.

***

She came to from a soft tapping on the window. Opened her eyes, looked around — and gasped.

Outside, perched on the ledge, the most colorfully feathered bird in the world looked at her with huge eyes, patiently waiting to be let in.