Fall in love in a weekwe get by

– Somewhat. I wouldn't mind seeing something similar in the work of certain individuals. And not always students.

I chuckled and shrugged.

– Judging by the worst exceptions, then, probably, Mr. Applestone will seem like a genius from poetry – without irony.

– Mr. Applestone – without a doubt. Everything with him is not as bad as it might seem. Of course, I won’t tell him about this even under torture, but you can’t argue with the facts. Shake the childish stupidity out of your head, put him behind books and lock him in some basement without temptations looming before your eyes, and something tolerable might come out. But for some “established authorities” nothing can save them. You were lucky the day before yesterday. You were just listening to Herr Volger. And I, to my great regret, read it. And even reviewed it.

“I sympathize,” was all I could say. She finished her tea in silence. Dougal was waiting for something. Is it really a desperate self-promotion session? What's good about me, really? What could he have seen even if I hadn’t been stupid and opened up right away?

That's the question.

“All my good things are left at home,” I admitted bitterly. – Who needs a journalist here who doesn’t even have basic knowledge about the world, even minimal cultural baggage that is understandable to readers? Of course, my two and a half foreign languages remain, but, again, these are the languages of our world.

– But you are not only a journalist. To begin with, you are Freya Sullivan, a woman who began with something and continued with something. With your views, life, and even these dreams of yours. I don’t think that you wrote your articles from infancy and around the clock until the notorious astral transfer and that’s all.

I wrapped my arms around myself: I felt like I was freezing, just like yesterday at the lake. No, I wasn't cold at all. It's just very awkward. I've never been able to talk about myself. A good journalist is invisible. He looks, listens and remains silent. Otherwise, all the sensations will run away!

Well, really, what can I say about myself?

– I also walked around London, fed the neighbor’s cat, read a lot, watched films, and sometimes tried to start an affair. As a rule, unsuccessfully. Nothing interesting if you look from the outside. And those who looked closely… The last one, for example, said that I was unbearable. And he fled to the other half of the globe, but here it’s far away, we don’t have portals.

“Apparently, your intolerability gave him an excellent acceleration.” I'm even curious what it is.

“Perhaps in the request not to throw your socks all over my apartment.” Or in the habit of saying “wait, I’m working” when he feels the urge to roll around in bed, and my article is on fire. Or maybe the last straw was a poster with some half-naked model, which I tore off the wall in my bedroom and invited him to hang this pornography not in my place. Don't know. He didn't explain, and I didn't ask.

“Indeed, it’s unbearable,” nodded Dougal with a very serious, even, perhaps, slightly dramatic look. – “Ours”, “mine”, “his”, “mine”. I have a slightly different idea of the harmonious coexistence of two organisms that, for some inexplicable reason, wished to be together.

“We haven’t reached the “ours” stage,” I agreed. – Strange. I just now thought that this was for the best. That nothing good would have come of it would have ended sooner or later.

– Logical conclusion. In principle, nothing decent can grow on such roots.

“Free and independent,” I remembered. “All that was left was to get fifteen cats to match.” But the problem was radically solved by damn astral transference.

Dougal put down his cup and leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked out the window with a thoughtful look.

– Well, it’s a good time for intermediate conclusions. You and I are ordinary, not very pleasant people to talk to. Which rather scare away others than attract them. Sometimes I even enjoy it. It's about me. In addition, neither you nor I can imagine ourselves without our favorite activity or hobby, for which we are ready to do almost anything. And no human relationship can replace this. I have only one exception, and it’s conditional. My mother never tried to change me or come between me and what I hold dear. Apparently you like something about me. I also like something about you. Is this enough of a curse? Not sure. But your Ghost Bear gave us time, which probably means something. I can't imagine how best to spend it. We'll have to improvise.