“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, aiming for a radiant look. 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. To me, the greatest — even greater than Kafka. 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, so fiercely and passionately that he felt slightly embarrassed, and whispered:

“I miss you, dummy. I miss you so damn much, that’s all. I already hate my fingers — compared to you, they’re nothing. Nothing, nothing. 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? You insisted.”

“Insisted, my ass! 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. And just so you know, I spent two hours on YouPorn learning how to take them off sexier. If that’s not love, then screw everything!”

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

“No waiting! Not with this gal. 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! Help me, Lord!”

He laughed joyfully and added:

“And a voyeur, on top of it. A real, ravenous voyeur.”

“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…

“Ah, we were young, weren’t we?”

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, with the most tempting belly button in the world. He started to pant, tucked his hands under his thighs, pressed down hard. Then, then, then!

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

“How much do they cost?”

He almost slapped himself in the mouth, but it was too late. The camera abruptly swung back up, revealing a face twisted with restrained fury.

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

He tried to look directly into the camera, aiming for where he imagined her eyes were, but it didn’t work. His gaze drifted away, as if pushed aside by some force field.

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

“Uh-huh…”

She lit a cigarette, nervously striking match after match.

“Hey, didn’t we agree you’d quit? We’re going European, remember?”

“To hell with Europe!”

She leaned back, exhaled a massive cloud of smoke, flicked the ash without looking. God — what if she started a fire? Ingeborg Bachmann died like that, cigarette in bed…

“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? All day long I keep repeating: ‘I’m big, big, big! I can, I can, I can!’”

“Have you started working?”

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

Silence. And smoke. He felt like he was at the end of Casablanca, only without the departing plane.

“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?”

His teeth started to chatter on their own. His hand reached for the camera switch, and he barely stopped it.

“Got vodka?”

He groaned and squirmed in his chair like a worm stepped on.

“Don’t dodge! Is there vodka?”

“Real Russian. The original,” he whispered, barely moving his lips. “Didn’t buy the cheap stuff this time.”

She slammed her fist on the table. The image jolted and warped, then steadied — probably through sheer willpower.

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

She stood and began pacing. She was indeed wearing only tiny black panties, revealing more than they concealed — but now it no longer mattered. He felt a terrible thirst and moaned, forcing himself not to run to the fridge.

“Listen now.”

He froze, trembling, teeth clacking.

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

“Y… yes. I’m listening.”

“I want you to sit down now and in…” she checked her watch, did some mental math, “… no more than two hours, send me something that’ll make me cry. Like in the old days, understand? I want a letter that’ll make me cry. If you manage — great. If not… we won’t talk about the vodka. I’ll leave you in God’s hands. I just want to see if you’re still capable of… anything. Agreed?”

“But…”

“AGREED?!”

He jumped.

“Yes, yes, of course. As you say, sugarpie.”

She reached out — and the screen went black. So did everything else around him. But of course, that goes without saying.

***

“My dearest sugar pie,”

“When you read this letter, I’ll already be with you, sunshine. I forgot to tell you — I’ve learned a very old Chinese spell. It’s all very simple, and I still don’t get why no one here in the West ever thought of something so basic. When you hit a dead end, you don’t need to bang your head or search for a way out, sweetheart. 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 — this is how the spell works — 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… That’s all.”

She screamed and lunged toward the computer. Her hands shook uncontrollably, almost convulsively. She barely managed to switch on the camera, bouncing in place…

Then froze.

He’d made an effort this time — really. The clown mask was painted perfectly, with masterfully arched lips curling upward. Only a thin stream of foam from one corner of his mouth betrayed that something about this clown wasn’t quite right.

She sat down and lit a cigarette mechanically.

***

Fire, fire, fire. Long, bright yellow, bony flames reach out with hungry hands, searching, groping, trying to find something to quench the thirst. Flames below, flames above, flames on the sides — flames everywhere. She doesn’t even try to run — what’s the point? Everything around her is raging, writhing, crackling, hissing, snapping — seeking prey, attention, satisfaction. And she sits — the only thing still alive is her gaze — and slowly counts down the moments left until the end of this eternity…

Because the fire — that’s me.

***

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.