“Act like a man,” I've noted for myself. Well, I’m left as the one who should — who else would arrange the funeral? I should call the police and the ambulance, too.

I stand in the corridor of granddad’s apartment as the services do their job, and I don’t want to interrupt them. Everything is just like I remember it from my childhood — an L-shaped corridor, the wardrobe without doors — only an oilcloth curtain, like in the shower. Granddad’s jacket smells as always — dust, fat, and age.

My sister came in, ran her hand into this jacket, and stole all the money. She happily nodded to me like she did so many times.

Except she's been dead for two years. I've already acted like a man at her funeral.

I've arranged everything. I wanted to stay in pants, but they told me women should wear dresses at a funeral.

And mom called me to tell me that granddad died a week ago. I wasn’t here because I just couldn’t — filtration issues at the border. What the hell is going on?

My mom usually says the dead appear in dreams before a change (of weather).

I look out of my tiny window. The blue-green-gray wave overwhelmed everything else — the sky, the shore, even the sea itself.

The guests start to arrive. I meet them in a black polka-dot dress — the same one I bought before my sister’s funeral. It is a warm day, but not warm enough — the wind kisses my bare skin.

I don’t understand why the house is so unlike ours — so Italian-like, dark yellow with orange shutters and a brown roof. The high-kroned trees are unusually dark-green. The sun highlights them and makes the black clothing of the guests look unusually bright.

Why are they dressed up like it’s a fashion show? Whose funeral am I at? Where am I — maybe already in Italy?

The table with drawers is so uncomfortable — I remember cooking so many salads before festive days, with no place to put my feet.

We sit opposite each other — the one I loved and me. There is so much post-mortem stuff I need to cope with. I should sell the apartment. To pack few things I want to take.

Why did anyone else show up? And why did they even need to show up? I should hire some professionals.

His fiancée came, finally. She looked up at the lightbulb and started yelling, accusing him of knowing nothing and always doing everything wrong. That’s a great luck she is here — of course, she can handle this problem better than him. She doesn’t say it directly, but I understand without a word from her mouth that she can handle it better than us. I’m the one who called them for help.

I concentrate my look on a window-sill — this can has always been here, we threw used matchsticks there. I recall the memory of our first date. He just moved into a new apartment and had no chandelier in the kitchen. He was a bit embarrassed there was only a lightbulb. I didn’t lie — it was beautiful.

Why did she notice that lightbulb first? Did he ever tell her about it?

They started to argue even more. I felt so irritated — I asked them to come and help me, and instead, they started that fight, as always. Now I understand why he cheats on her.

How did I know that? He cheated on me, not her. He never was around when I needed him — but he always wanted her to stay.

They were in love, for sure. But she broke up with him half a year ago. So now, I and the one I loved are trying to get back together.

I looked up at the window. The weather is just the same as in the morning.

It seems nobody feels any grief. Do I?

I have a plane ticket for tomorrow.

My two beautiful friends arrive on a black cabrio, like they’re heading to a beach house. Their black long hair floats in the sea wind. Are they twins?

One has a child, one has freedom.

"They're mirrors," I admit. “Each envies what the other has. But neither is better, or worse.”

The sun is at its zenith — no shadows.

The heat is deadly secular. So black is more than enough, anyway.

An old man with black hair and beard, with bright black eyes, comes to me. I don’t know him — but I know that he understands something. The bitterness of loss.

He hugs me. And for a second, I feel right. Grounded.

I feel pain — not just because I’ve lost someone. Because I’ve lost everyone.

But my parents are still alive.

For women, love equals life.

Every single thing I ever did, said, and even wrote was always shaded by the man — how would he judge my actions. Would he be by my side, when everything is fucked?

Or should I act like a man for most of the time?

All of this is unnecessary anyway. Everything that was previously, doesn’t matter anymore. But I haven’t met the one I love already, too.

So, for now, I feel indifferent. It should be hard to handle everything on my own, still I have the feeling everything just goes like it should.

I see the one I love, trying to hide something — but not out of malice, perhaps shame.

He drives an asphalt paver on train rails, against the flow.

I understand everything without a word said. If only he could share his grief with me, he would feel better.

But I still don’t know his granddad died, too — because I haven’t met him yet.

My mom usually says the dead appear in dreams before a change (of weather).

I have a plane tomorrow.