A couple hours later, of course, Oksana called. After listening to a few beeps to give her more ground for doubt, Gustav picked up the phone: "Yes."

Silence. Silence at first. Almost always. Silence, after all, always comes before actions.

"Gus," the girl's voice both expressed everything and nothing. Full of emptiness. The kind of emptiness that feeds hopelessness. Before calling, she thought for a long time, over how she told everyone about her purity and integrity with clients, not mixing personal life with public life. And in doing so, she lied. Lied to everyone, too. She'd slept with virtually every man who'd made a real estate deal through her. She even ingrained the phrase "real estate deal through her" in her soul. She believed that one day she would simply meet her man and say a resounding "no" to such an attitude and in an instant forget all of this. But that time never came. And such deals with men have long been a given. And when the moment of choice came yesterday, she had thought it was "just one more time that doesn't change anything." After all, Pablo had bought the apartment through her, too.

"Yes"-Gustav held a pause. As always. Man is his own best executioner.

"I called this morning… Did you read my messages?"

"Messages? No. I woke up a little while ago. Why, is there something urgent there?"

Silence. Silence again. And all because the answer was not what was expected. No reproofs, no moralizing, no idle chatter, but only indifference, stretching like a layer of clouds across the sky.

–

Gustav, I didn't mean to… I was drunk. I don't even remember everything… Or even I don't remember much.

–

What is there to remember? It's just the way it is.

–

Don't say that. I'm sorry. Я…

–

Sorry for what? You have nothing to apologize for. Just like there's no hard feelings.

–

So… So you're not offended by me?

–

No. Of course I'm not offended.

She sighed. She knew. There are men. Real men who know how to understand. They know how to take a punch. And they do it with honor. They say they're made of steel. And that's exactly what he is. And he is. And he's with her.

She sighed once more, wanting once more to feel the relief she had just felt when that pile of stones, that red-hot mass of iron, had fallen away from her shoulders. It was easy now. Now she could move on with her life. And now she would be with him. Only with him. Always.

–

I'm… So glad… You have no idea what a weight has been lifted off me right now… So I'll come to you now?

–

You don't have to.

–

All right. Uh-huh. You're right. I should come to my senses. – she sighed again, this time smiling so she could be heard on the phone. – Tomorrow, then?

–

No. You shouldn't come here.

Little doubts. Like a slight breeze. Like a slight darkening and you start to think you've only blinked.

–

Not to you?… Why, Gus?

–

Oksan.

–

Yes, sweetie.

–

Who needs a whore?

Something rumbled in her ears. Or maybe not in her ears. Somewhere inside. Her eyes went dark, and it felt like she'd forgotten how to breathe. How to breathe the air around her. She tried to cough, to push through whatever was stirring in her throat and ask "why?", "why?", "how do I fix it?". She tried to say it when the phone was already ringing off the hook, when her salty tears mixed with mascara rolled down her cheeks past her trembling lips. She tried to believe it wasn't her, it just happened. She tried to remember that things were different. She tried and tried, not realizing she was tearing her own stupid heart with her fingernails....

Vincent listened only to the click of his heels as he moved with slow, steady steps toward the car. It was especially nice to hear them after a conversation like this. He felt like a winner. The kind of man who would choose his own path, his own identity… And even his own death. To her he replied, "Another day…" He was reminded of a phrase from a famous saga where the characters said to death, "Not today," but he didn't like it completely. That's exactly what most people think. They recoil, they turn away, they seek to avoid – it's not a winner's road. And so I do not postpone, like a conscript, an unnecessary moment, but appoint it myself:

"Another day!"

The night is dark. And Vincent is drunk, though not too drunk. And once again, getting behind the wheel with a cloudy mind, with hands that are not steady, with eyes that close on their own, he simply said: "Another day."

Didn't care which one. This year or next year. Winter or summer. Sober or drunk. Just another one.

The turns were easy for him. As usual. It was business as usual. Him, his car, his body, his road. The road went on as usual. Tomorrow to Istanbul. Bashkurt's there. They'll definitely ask for a discount. He'll say times are hard and all that. It's so cliché. Times are never hard. Neither is it easy. It's all about people. Just like problems are only about people. It's as silly to say time is hard as it is to say time has problems. Time has no problems. It's just a given. And Gustav. Yes. He's really cool, isn't he? He's always listening, always learning. Always learning. That's exactly what you should learn from him. He's like an old man. Like an old wise man who absorbs the knowledge of the universe. I wonder if he's okay with women. I think he's had a few, but more details. I'd have to ask him. You'd have to ask him. If you ask him, you'll answer your own question later. I could learn that from him, too.

Cunning. Cool and sneaky.

The turn went sideways more than the previous ones, and the car went steeper, to the left, into the oncoming traffic. 140 kilometers an hour. There is no problem to go back, and even with such technique: 300C is strong on corners, the rubber is only run-in, you can participate in races on it. A little bit of cornering and you're back in your own lane. And, really, like in a race, just leave a small gap at the lefthand edge when you turn right. And then back into your lane.

Two white lights in the front. Headlights. Right in front of them… There's no point in braking – you can't go right.

Not a drop of nerves. Not a drop of fear. Vincent just sobered up instantly. Crashing is crashing. Not the stupidest death ever. And he chose it anyway. So it's worth confirming it. Just to be sure all the way. Shoe on the gas pedal.

He didn't really realize and couldn't remember exactly how he had gone around that car. It seemed to be to the left of the car, right on the edge of the road, even though he had skidded even more. I don't think so. They're all sort of–

Sort of– Sort of– Sort of–

And it's not like he's alive at all. He's alive, and he's not even hit.

Vincent glanced at the receding car in the rearview mirror and said. For the first time in his life, he said After instead of Before: "Another day."

Catherine didn't fully understand what was going on with this puppy – he just didn't want to eat. He wasn't doing anything special: he wasn't moaning, whining, barking – he just wasn't eating. And he looked at her. With his kind brown eyes, asking for help. From her.

She has already contacted some of the best vets in town. Then with her father, who has already contacted the best vets, known only to a small circle of individuals where money alone is not enough to get help. And then the tests. And then consultations again. And more tests.