That week was a form of torture.
My headaches began to return, exactly as the doctor had warned. With each day, they grew worse, worse, and worse. I could no longer see the point of taking those damned tablets when they brought no relief at all.
To make matters even more unbearable, everyone around me seemed to conspire against me.
Everywhere I looked, there was the same thing. Every newspaper, every glossy magazine, every piece of online nonsense appeared determined to show me only one thing—his face.
His smiling face followed me everywhere. When I drove through the city, it appeared on the streets. I tried to check the news, and there he was again. Even when I attempted to focus on economic reports, his face surfaced there as well. It was as if the whole world had decided that no other news existed, that the sole thing people needed to know was that damn symbol of the protests.
Were they mocking me?
The guy never left that cursed construction site. I hadn't seen a single photograph of him marching with the other hybrids or shouting slogans.
So why were they doing this?
It was as though somewhere there sat a cunning bastard who had decided to draw as much attention to our bartender as possible.
And it drove me mad.
The irritation did not come from seeing his face. That face remained as attractive as ever.
What truly angered me was the uncertainty. I couldn't tell whether someone stood behind all this, or whether it was merely a chance. In our world, every news site, every newspaper, every magazine belonged to one powerful figure or another. So I doubted very much that all of this was happening by accident.
Something deep down told me that none of this would lead to anything good.
I pushed myself away from the desk, rested the back of my head against the chair, and turned towards the wide panoramic window.
If anyone insisted on calling this spring, I would suggest they speak to a psychiatrist, because the sight beyond the glass was dreadful. Fog hung low over the street. A thin drizzle drifted through the air. The slush underfoot had melted into wide, dirty puddles that for some reason no one had bothered to clear away. Watching it now through the window stirred gloom rather than any hint of cheer.
CRASH!
I nearly jumped, though I did not bother to turn around. It was far too obvious who could storm into my office with such audacity, nearly taking the door off its hinges… again.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked, pressing my fingers to my temple.
"Well…" came a cheerful voice. "Now you recognise me by my footsteps?"
"What footsteps, Michael? You are the only person who barges into my office without knocking. At this rate, you will have to pay for the repairs. I'm quite certain there is already a dent in the door from the way you crashed in here."
"Oh, come on. You can afford a repair on your own. What sort of treatment is that for your friends? Besides, when someone visits you, it would be polite to turn around and look at them."
I sighed, then slowly turned in my chair.
"It would be polite to knock," I said. "Or better, to warn me before arriving."
"Politeness, politeness, politeness. Those famous manners of Edward Moncler do not apply to me, I'm afraid." Michael said. "I have not come here without a reason. It is time for a bar."
I looked at him, not quite understanding.
"Then go," I said. "Why come to me?"
A sly smile spread across his face.
"I'm here to take you with me. I'm tired of sitting around here. This place is unbearably boring. We cannot go for a walk in this weather. Something tells me I would end up catching you again when you slip on the pavement. So let us go to a bar and drink something capable of improving the mood."
"No," I replied shortly.
"Oh, come on. Stop sitting in this miserable room. I'm sure your head aches simply because you never leave it. Duties, duties, duties. You must enjoy yourself from time to time. Come along."
"I said no."
"And I said yes."
He smiled with alarming determination, stepped closer, and suddenly seized the back of my chair, pushing it towards the door. I was so startled that for a moment I did not even understand what was happening.
"What childish nonsense is this?" I snapped, jumping to my feet.
"Let us just have a drink. There is an excellent bar. Quiet, calm. One drink and that will be all."
I looked at him and, to my own surprise, considered that perhaps it was a decent way to distract myself.
"Only one drink," I said.
He practically bounced where he stood. "I knew it. I actually managed it. I dragged you out."
"Not yet, you have not. And if you behave any further like a child, you will fail."
"All right, all right. I'm silent. Let us go."
Half an hour later, we were seated in the bar he had chosen.
Michael had not been joking when he said the bar would be quiet. It was indeed a quiet place, though beyond that it was unmistakably elite. Velvet covered the barstools, the counter was polished wood of some expensive sort, and there were very few guests. Each of them radiated authority and money.
A bartender approached us in a uniform that looked almost surgically clean.
"Good evening, gentlemen. What will you be drinking tonight?"
He sounded polite, but there was something beneath the tone, a faint trace of arrogance perhaps.
I didn't feel comfortable here.
"Surprise me," I said in a cold tone.
The bartender gave a brief nod and turned to the shelves of expensive spirits. He selected one of the costliest bottles of whisky and poured a measure into a perfectly polished glass.
"Please. One of the finest we have. You will not regret it."
I looked at the glass, took it in my hand, and turned it slightly as I studied it. The colour was remarkable, the scent suggested something rare. Yet for some reason, I felt disappointed.
"Edward?" Michael's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Why do you look so displeased? What did you expect? It is excellent whisky. Did you hope for some bright cocktail with a little umbrella?"
I said nothing and took a small first sip.
Michael chuckled, resting his chin on his hand. "You are impossible to please. Even alcohol can't manage it. What is it, then? Still brooding over that charming little face?"
"That is none of your concern," I snapped, raising the glass to my lips again. How did this fool manage to read me with such ease?
"Perhaps not," he said lightly. "But something is clearly troubling you. Why not speak about it? Share it with your only friend. I'm talking about myself, of course."
I set the glass back on the bar.
"Friend? I don't recall ever granting you that title."
He smirked.
"I hardly require your approval. I can decide such matters myself. Our relationship has grown close. We spend nearly every day together. Give it a little more time, and someone might begin to suspect we are lovers."
"Two men? Seriously? What nonsense."
"Come now, my dear Edward. Am I not cute enough? I would say I'm quite good-looking. And in our time worrying about such trifles…"
He stopped suddenly.
"Oh. Yes. I nearly forgot... Moncler Senior… My mistake. He would never approve, would he?" he gave a small shrug. "Well then, for the sake of keeping my limbs intact, I'd best not flirt with you."