The headache had begun to trouble me again.
The doctor had warned me about this. He said the tablets he had given me would lose what little effect they had. Either my body would grow accustomed to them, or something of that sort.
I had not paid much attention to his explanation, to be honest, though I understood the main point clearly enough. At best, I had another week. After that, according to him, the headaches would return. Most likely worse than before.
The trouble was that I still hadn't resolved the problem and hadn't even decided how to go about it.
I could hardly vanish from the office and hide in some private clinic where no one would find me.
That was impossible.
My absence would raise questions at once. It would attract attention, and the rest would follow soon enough.
Of the other options the doctor had suggested, there remained only private consultations with a psychologist, or taking a month away from everything to rest.
Both sounded absurd.
So in the end, unable to find a convenient way to solve the problem, I did nothing. Which meant that once the tablets lost their effect, the pain would return.
Besides, I had no free time to reflect on the matter. There was a huge amount of work waiting for me, along with other obligations.
Obligations such as this one.
At that moment, I was sitting at an event organised by my mother.
She adored such things. At times, it seemed to be her favourite occupation. What could be better, after all, than dressing in absurdly expensive clothes and exchanging gossip with other equally arrogant people?
But I suspected that apart from the gossip, she had another reason for arranging all of this today.
In an attempt to match me with someone, she presented one lady after another. The last woman she had brought to me had enormous lips covered in red lipstick. Perhaps some might have found them very tempting. However, I, on the contrary, thought they were weird, and the bright red colour looked rather vulgar to me.
As soon as they stepped away from me, I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and drew a slow, heavy breath.
I was so tired. Tired of all these pretentious women. They were not to my taste. I preferred something entirely different, something more… innocent.
I imagined lips less full, though not small, with a soft pink colour. For some reason, that thought brought his face to mind. His expression at the moment I kissed him. He had turned bright red, trembling, hardly breathing.
In that instant, I felt something extraordinary, touched with a faint sense of superiority.
It was an amazing feeling.
When he stepped out of the car, my heart pounded all the way home. I couldn't sleep that night. My mind continued darting between memories of his face at that moment and imagining how it might all turn out.
By morning, I had decided I could not allow it to become anything more. I told myself I had to remain in control. Nothing good would come of it.
I vowed to myself that I would not touch him again, even though I wanted to. I wanted to brush my fingers over his ears, to feel that soft, fluffy tail, to see how he would react if I…
A movement beside me pulled me out of my thoughts.
I opened my eyes and turned towards it. Of course, my shadow had dropped onto the sofa next to me.
Perhaps I was imagining it, but it seemed that after that walk, Michael had become even more persistent. He had practically glued himself to me. He hadn't moved more than a foot away and kept staring at me with that strange look, smiling the whole time.
Just as he was doing now.
Out of habit, I was ready to snap at him and had already opened my mouth to speak when my mother's loud laughter interrupted me.
Several people, including me, turned in her direction.
"You are so amusing, my dear," my mother said to the woman beside her. "But truly, it is sweet that they try." She waved a hand lightly. "Well, they must attract attention somehow. So, of course, they chose a pleasant face."
Someone nearby joined the conversation.
"Are you speaking about that guy? Honestly, I believe the whole thing is staged. I cannot imagine anyone from their sort of society looking that good." The man spoke with open disdain. "Especially among those ruins."
"Oh, what was his name?" another woman said, snapping her fingers as she tried to remember. "The article called him something. Ah yes. A symbol of the protests. Very young. Quite charming. A pity he is a hybrid."
A symbol of the protests?
For some reason, I started to feel uneasy.
What were they talking about?