Archive of Our Own

Many things were below me, but there was nothing left above me. Nothing, except a perfectly starry sky. I stood and watched the flickering points on the horizon. My long, brown hair was blown away by a gentle wind. I was thinking more and more about the meaning of human or more accurately my existence. As usual, I didn't find the answer. And that was probably the sense, that search. The desire to know and discover was my driving force. A sleepy truck driver passed below me.

I was eighteen years old and I was standing on the yellow roof of my house, planning not to be older even by a day. Not a minute. This desire was so desperate that I climbed a wooden, rotten ladder older than my mother, although I had a fear of heights so scarry, that I was afraid to climb into a chair. I was afraid of practically everything. Dogs. And cats. Snakes. Spiders. Crossing the street (as a child I was hit by a car). Self-checkouts (not per se, I'm just afraid of coming across as an idiot, which is connected with three-quarters of my fears). The list goes on and on...

My life was not marked by traumatic events. Grandpa drank a little, father constantly drank, grandmother screamed loudly. Statistical American family. There was  shortage of money, there was no shortage of love. What pushed me to this yellow edge was indifference. I was young, I had my whole life ahead of me. An idyllic perspective. I can do anything, the private God complex, the master of the world. It's just that there was no desire to live in me. I didn't see its point. How much can this depress a person? Just yesterday I dreamed of a beautiful, modern house, full of splendor, and today it was meaningless to me, because why do I need it? It won't make me happier, it won't help me to find out why I'm here. It's just four walls. My family house didn't give me happiness, so why would another building do that? Schopenhauer would be proud. Nietzsche would shed a tear. Camus would said bravo.

I was emotionally hollowed out. I had trouble recognizing and expressing my emotions. I wasn't joyful, full of enthusiasm, but I wasn't sad or resentful either. And I wanted to. I preferred to burn alive. At least I would feel. Feeling is such a beautiful thing that no one appreciates. It's funny how people tell you you're okay and then wonder why you jumped. After all, depression is not a disease. You don't have the slightest desire to get out of the airtight cocoon of your bed, you don't want to meet people, you isolate yourself even more, although you know that people are the only thing that could help you. It's just that even your loved ones put you down even more. They say that you will not achieve anything valueable in life, that you are not enough. Sometimes you have positive kick, you shout, laugh, but it's not enough. It's nothing in this sea, the ocean of indifference.

I think my problem was to be born in a bad era. And I don't mean the desire to go back to the crazy eighties or the finesse twenties. Ordinary, simple, fifties of the nineteenth century. Where from an early age I would have to go to the field. Fatigue wouldn't allow irrational thoughts to creep into the head. Lack of time wouldn't allow to fall into indifference. Where I probably wouldn't be educated and it'd work in my favor, because by the degree of my knowledge now the only thing I was striving for was the desire to know the meaning of human life. And if the great before me didn't succeed, how could I, with a gigantic complex about my intelligence, or rather the lack of it? And although I knew it was a vicious circle, I ran in it like a hamster. If it weren't for knowledge, I would probably believe in God, but how in my world can God compare to science? In a world where it's hard to discover something, to invent something, because we have reached the bottom of the ocean and the moon, because computers think for us and do it much better and faster. Even though I couldn't do it, I'd rather believe in God than science, because it would probably make sense of everything. But I was a child of the twenty-first century. And this is probably the biggest insult. Times when everyone creates themselves, the peak of dreams is to become a social media star, there is no place for higher values, and feelings are expressed only through emoticons, that is, they aren't expressed at all.

And now I was standing, with one leg outstretched in front of me. I felt a bit like Jenny in Forrest  Gump, except it was less dramatic. It was enough to add a second one and I would have peace of mind. I don't believe in life after death, that would be the end of the road. That's what I wanted to hope. I wanted to rest, turn off my mind. Does that mean I believed after all? I still don't know the answer to this question, but then I think the remnants of the most primal instinct remained in me. The body wanted to survive. There is no stronger desire than the desire to survive. The involuntary reflex of man. So now it worked. Maybe my will to die was too weak, or my will to live was still smoldering. The neighbor decided to have a night jam  session and turned on the radio. A new Louis Tomlinson song, often played that summer, was heard. Then it was to become my anthem, which emerged me from the bottom of despair. If it all goes wrong,  darling just hold on. The song had simple, clichéd, catchy lyrics. I preferred more ambitious things, always. So far, Desiderata has paid homage to me. But at that moment, it seemed to be written as if perfectly for me, for that moment. Every line spoke about my life, I felt as if a police negotiator was talking to me through the radio, the only thing missing was the last line spoken in a calming tone – "Now get off the roof."

My tired mind gave me one last thought. Just because all the other ways have failed and led me to that edge, doesn't mean I've given myself a chance. My subconscious mind told me that I had two choices. Either I can jump now and finish everything, or I can start over. Tabula rasa. I was in the place where the plan of my life sprouted. I pulled my foot back.

All my life I have been repeating, like a mantra, that I will never live in the city. Constant rush, traffic jams, noise. I liked my little house with a garden, in one of the provincial towns. I appreciated this luxury, I didn't have to live there every day, but it only took forthy minutes by train to get to the bustling center. New York never slept and that's what I liked the most about it. And now I had to deny what I had always told myself, because here came the idea. Leave. Escape from the plain reality, change something. The cure for my dulling was to be the rush, movement, and noise that I had so avoided. I quickly studied the places I was attracted to, about which I had any, even illusory, false belief. I was looking for something where the turnover of people and cultures would be as great as possible, where in one place I would come into contact with the whole world. Something where night doesn't fall. Where I would find myself again. The choice was the most clichéd possibility in whole world. London. The English version of the American dream. But it was something that suited me best. A beautiful city, full of crowds, English-speaking and most importantly it was far away, had a different mentality. It was supposed to make a difference. In one second I made a decision.

I'd like to say that I ran downstairs, scooped up money, I threw things carelessly into my suitcase, with the sleeve of my shirt sticking out of the unclosed side, and then ran out of the house, like a red-haired Medusa from a Disney's movie I watched when I was little. I'd like to say that I went straight from the roof to the airport, desperately fighting for my life. But just as everything looked nice in my head, it was not so easy to do. Despite this, the seed was sown. I didn't go downstairs. I didn't take my life savings, eleven eighty-two, in one- and two-cent denominations, which filled half of the old coffee jar that served as my piggy bank. I sat down and decided to come up with a more concrete plan, not just a vague dream. I always lacked the courage to act, ideas dissided. Now it was supposed to be different.

I wanted to change something, so I decided to change everything.

And then he came into the view.

***

Two weeks after my would-be death, I got answers from the universities. I got into Ottoman and Turkish studies at NYU, and English Philology with French at  Fordham University. I chose only New York based universities. Even though I was eighteen years old, I was completely dependent. I never worked, I couldn't set up the washing machine, and my mother used to set up my doctor appointments. Running errands in the office terrified me. Any official human interaction scared me. Adult life scared me. So it was obvious to stay at home and not stand out. But then I regretted it. I went out for a beer with my friends, who said that they got into universities in London or Denmark. And hey, I wanted that too. I'd be stupid if I didn't want to. But in my wildest dreams, it didn’t occur to me to think about foreign schools. How could I have known that I’d soon have the idea to escape there? So I had another three to five years left here, with the thought of leaving in the back of my head, which was the only one that kept me going, motivating me, telling me why I was doing all this, why I was here.

I was a little disappointed because these were just backup options. Originally, I wanted to get into economics or French at NYU, but I knew I didn't have a chance. The admission rates from previous years laughed in my face, and the laws that came into force with the year in which I was supposed to start additionally raised them by cutting places. In fact, I submitted papers there more based on the hope that others wrote their final exams worse than my results. And then a miracle happened, in the second recruitment they accepted me for economics, despite the fact that I was almost fiftieth on the reserve list. I fell into euphoria, because although it wasn’t the major of my dreams, I had a plan on how to develop in this direction to get good money. From HR to CFO. Like a thread. Simple. Easy peasy.

***

The full moon fell this month at the worst possible time. I have no idea why, but during the full moon I could never sleep. Three nights taken out of life. And this was only at a normal full moon, and not some Supermoon, when it shone up to thirty percent more than at its apogee. I've always had a blown up biological clock. As an eight-year-old, I would spend nights, sitting with a flashlight under the covers and reading, so my mom wouldn't know. That's why, when it was one or two in the morning and I wasn't sleeping, I didn't care. But when it was accompanied by this strange feeling, which I can't name, but which I feel in my chest, just behind the sternum, I began to get suspicious. If I happened to listened to the Blue Foundation,  Salvia  Palth, or Pink  Floyd's High  Hopes, I was immediately checking the lunar calendar. Sometimes it was not necessary, because between the third and fourth a.m. the moon shone so much that it was as bright as day. It was just one of those nights. At nine thirty I had a lecture on economic systems and I felt terrible.

It was also the night when I found that the moon was shining from the side of my window, in the new dorm room. It was smaller than the room in my family home, but it definitely had its pross. For example, when I couldn't sleep at night and wanted to smoke a joint, I didn't have to hide. I've only smoked one cigarette in my entire life, but somehow in the last year I became addicted to the weed. Not much, I had to smoke half to one spliff, once every two, three, four days. But at home with my retired grandparents and my mom sleeping next door, it was quite a challenge. I couldn't smoke during the day because one could tell right away. It also had its advantages. Thanks to this, during the day I always kept a clear mind. My boyfriend at the time was saying, ‘But what are you afraid of? If she’ll catch you, then she’ll, and that's it.’ But as I mentioned, I'm afraid of everything. So I waited until two or three in the morning, and when I was sure that no one would suddenly wake up, I closed the door of the room as quietly as I could. And although I knew that they were closed, each time I checked twice. Just to be sure. As quietly as I could, I moved the chair under the cabinet with albums and binders with old notes, hanging above my head, and from behind the binders I pulled out a bag in which I had a  grinder hidden, skins, piece of paper folded into four, on which I mixed it with cigarettes and said pack of cigarettes. In my other hand I took a plastic skull hidden next to it, in which I had a string bag hidden, in which a plastic container was hidden, in which weed was wrapped in aluminum. If I could fit one more layer of odor insulating, I probably would.  Just to be sure. I sat down at my desk, and as fast as possible, I started rolling blunt too sloppily. It never was dense enough, but he burned as it should, so I didn’t complain. At first, I smoked in the window. I had an old bottle of orange juice, which became a makeshift ashtray, hidden in the glove compartment behind another drawer with old notes, and it’s done just fine. But when autumn began, it was too cold to leave the window open for the room to ventilate. So at three o'clock in the morning, sometimes with still wet hair, I would put on a sweatshirt, jacket and sneakers, and as quietly as possible, I would go out the window to the balcony, cursing at the lavender that my mother had planted in pots along the entire windowsill, which made me almost kill myself on few occasions. But it worked on mosquitoes, so that in the summer I could leave the window open and I didn’t wake up all itchy. I smoked fast, huddled, and pressed against the wall of the building, afraid that my mother would suddenly, God knows why, at three o'clock enter the balcony through the next room, or that my grandmother would suddenly, God only knows why, at three o'clock go outside and see me on the balcony. Then I slowly entered through the window and with an old handkerchief hidden behind a desk I wiped the traces of shoes from the window sill. I closed the window as quietly as possible, and the sound was echoing so loud. I had the impression that my mother could hear my heartbeat. I slowly undressed, hiding the bottle, cursing the drawer in my head, whose wheels almost roared, rolling on the panels. At the end, I opened the door, and although I heard a characteristic click, I opened it by an inch to see if it really opened. Just to be sure. And finally, I calmly went into bed, being able to relax and let go of the breath that had been held for half an hour. Ironically, I started smoking because I had chronic stress. That bad stress they told you about in school. That one, which made my heart knocking and my hands shaking. Because of which I couldn’t sleep at night. So in order not to stress and be able to sleep, I started smoking. And then I stressed every time I smoked so they wouldn't catch me. Several times a week. Such a paradox.

In the dormitory, I could sit normally and roll a joint decently, I could smoke in the window, without stress, pure relaxation, and the only precautions I had to follow were to put a wet towel in the threshold so that it wouldn’t stink in the hallway and occasionally light a candle. Although some people on my floor didn’t practice even that little bit of forethought.

So I got up and started rolling, hoping that at least after that I’d be able to fall asleep.

***

In the morning class I was barely conscious and irritable. There were situations in which a number of other factors had to be checked before I was judged to be angry all by myself. Did I get enough sleep? Did I have a period? Was I hungry? These three determinants pressed my buttons. Sometimes it was enough to just feed me, to make me cheerful again. I blame this on the pre-adoption period. When there was only light and cheese in the fridge. Toast with cheese for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And not just any. From a special recipe. Just one slice of cheese. And it had to be cut in bread shape, so that it didn’t protrude beyond the bread, because it is a waste. On better days, onions could be added. After the adoption, my mother's friends pointed out to her that I was ill mannered, because whenever we came to them, I opened the refrigerator. I wasn't even hungry, I just liked to look at a full fridge. In which there was ham and lettuce, and sweets, which melted easily. And it were the expensive ones, like Kinder chocolate bars. And although I continued to eat toast, only with avocado, I never forgot that warm yellow light filling my refrigerator. To this day, when I come to someone, the first thing I do is open the fridge.

I impatiently tapped the cover of the notebook with my pencil, waiting for the professor to start. When he finally closed the leather neseser it was already nine thirty-five. The man was young. Certainly before forty. He had average height and fair hair. He wore glasses with rectangular lenses. His faint smile was a bit cunning. Ratty. He stood in front of the desk. He limited himself to a short introduction, an absolute minimum, and then immediately went on to lecture.

“Which oil in the world is the most expensive?” The question was strange, to say the least. It was probably some kind of ploy. Carefully rehearsed in front of the mirror performance. In his head, the curtain apparently went up.

I had no idea. People around me were saying more types of flavored oils and lubricants, and it dawned on me that I didn't even think that there could be so many types of oil. They named some diesel fuel. Man was surprised, asked a few questions about the oil, but he still remained confident. He nonchalantly leaned against his desk, his legs stretched out in front of him and his arms folded over his chest. Something was wrong. Since the markets fluctuate so much and he hasn't lost an ounce of certainty, he had to have a prepared answer. One that couldn’t change as easily as the price on the market. Think Rey. You know that. You love riddles. Oil. Oil. Oil. What are the idioms with the word oil? Oil one’s hand obviously... and what was this old neighbor always saying? The good oil. We were at the university. A place where accurate details and information were more valuable than money. That had to be it! Any normal person would speak at this point to please the teacher. To get attention. And God knows, I was supposed to do it too, but what if it wasn't it? Just old Australian saying. The thing I feared the most in the world was to come across as an idiot. In high school, I was pretty go-ahead. I played in the school volleyball team, I was talkative, and because I changed the science classes to history, and thus the language groups from Spanish and French that were assigned to these classes, I knew most of the people in nine out of ten classes. In the last class, something changed. Since I was fourteen, I've had depressive episodes. But that's what they were - episodes. When I was graduating from high school, they intensified. In addition, I was stressed by exams. In the extracurricular volleyball team, the girls bullied me because of the weight, although I was good enough that I always came out in the first-team. From that moment on, there was a contradiction in me. I didn't want to lean out. I was no longer confident. I didn't want anyone to look at me. On the other hand, I wanted to shout to the teachers, "Hey! Look at me! I'm not stupid. I know that."

Intelligence was my biggest complex. Because I was stupid, I was above average wise. I'm already explaining. I distinguish wisdom into two categories. You can be street smart and book smart. You can have both. One or the other. You may also have none. Although I was assured that in the first category I was completely average, in the best sense of the word, I always felt that I was more stupid than my peers. That they patronized me. I was naïve and gullible. I was looking for acceptance. That's why I always wanted to know the answer to everything. So that no one would surprise me in the conversation. And if that happened, I pretended to know something about it and maneuvered on the surface of the topic for as long as I could, without going into details, or cleverly changed the topic. That's why I read every book I could get my hands on. Thanks to my excellent memory, I didn't have to study. I was too lazy for that. I had average grades, straight Bs and Cs, but I remembered the information years later. If I didn't know something, I immediately googled it up, because I was restless until I knew answer. And so, years after I discovered my complex, it turned out that I know incomparably more than others. And I was still dumber than them. They still patronized me.

"Good oil.” During my inner monologue, when I was arguing with myself about whether to answer or not, somewhere in the room someone answered.

I was overwhelmed with this strange feeling. It was worse than that terrifying feeling of shame when you gave the wrong answer. Knowing you were right, and only that damn fear,  made you not get the credit. And that anger at myself. Risk sometimes Rey. Really, you won't die. When I was reproaching myself with my own uncertainty, teacher began to talk about the value of science, reason, reliable information, the pursuit of knowledge, and everything that was connected with this proverbial, unfortunate oil. Finally, he asked a second question.

“Which economic system do you consider to be the best?” It seems that it will be a seminar rather than a lecture. Apparently, professor preferred more interactive classes.

Of course there is no good economic system. Otherwise, there would be peace on earth, there would be no poverty and inequality, no climate crisis. Socialism has no bad values, but it is difficult to finance, and the post-war years in Eastern Europe proved that its extreme form of communism is even worse than capitalism.

"Capitalism. It freed people from the yoke of the feudal lords. From now on, everyone has an equal chance," said a low voice behind me, somewhere to the left.

Maybe it's anger at herself for not answering. Maybe it's irritability because of a sleepless night. Who knows? But I couldn't listen to this stupidity. I snorted. I saw the encouraging-questioning gaze of the teacher, so not turning around, I picked up right where I left:

"C’mon. Capitalism is the new feudalism. Power and resources concentrated in the hands of a small percentage of the population, earning money from the exploitation of the poor. Under the guise of another name, the same ideas are sold.

“If capitalism is supposed to resemble feudalism in something, it is at most a more developed version, devoid of its shortcomings. Even if it has his own, they aren’t as great as in feudalism or socialism,” he spat out the last word almost like an insult. I could see the red flag with the hammer and sickle unfolding in his head, and almost could hear the song playing in his head. Moskau, Moskau, or another Ra ra Rasputin.

"Let me show a well-known Drake mem," I put my hand as if it were covering my profile. "Socialism," I changed the position of my hand, so that now it lay flat inside up, as if I were giving something. “Free education and health care, a decent salary, a full belly, cheap public transport, greenery in the city, a maximum of eight hours of work, protection of workers' rights. I could do that all day, but I think you understand my point.”

‘I wonder how you would like to finance it in the real world? It is a straight way, a highway to the economic crisis. The market verified the needs of people and gave each of them the right price, which consumers agreed to.”

"Your problem is that you still treat orthodox economics like a bible. Markets are unreliable. There is no invisible hand of Adam Smith. Wake up. The last fifty years and so many different heterodox schools. Keynesian, institutional, behavioral, feminist economics. Each and every single one has debunked the axioms on which mainstream economics is based. Only monetarists still believe in capitalism. This paradigm is not working and it is high time to change it.”

“Less Marx before sleep.”

Finally, I turned around, grabbing the edge of the desk with my hand. I could feel my knuckle whitening. I combed the desks with my eyes, trying to locate this neoliberal ass. Five rows behind me, right next to the aisle, sat a boy with a mocking smile on his lips. It had to be him.

“Lack of substantive arguments? Yours are as defective as the economic system you cherish. It freed people... Some joke. The king is dead, long live the king.” I stared at him angrily, a funny spark dancing in his eyes, but he didn't add anything else. Behind me, I heard the proffesor’s delighted voice.

"I am glad that I have encouraged you to this lively discussion. As you can see, there is no clear answer to this question...” Man said something else about the historical outline, according to which we will discuss the given systems, and then he started with the first of them.

Throughout the whole class, I haven’t written a word. Before my eyes I had a white spot of anger and fatigue. When the lecture was over, I quickly packed up my things and went to the desk where this asshole was sitting. He must have been a few years older than most of us. In fact, he was already a man. Maybe he had already finished another major earlier.

"Listen, you pompous smeghead," I began.

Brunet got up, and I had the impression that he was growing indefinitely. He hung the bag over his shoulder.

"Yes?" He asked, offensively raising one eyebrow. It was as if he had an advantage over me.

He wasn't very handsome, but damn. He was so tall. And suddenly he seemed more handsome. How is it that a boy can have the face of a model, but if he’s short he’s moderately attractive, while the other can be completely average, but because of height, he suddenly turns out to be much more attractive? I had no idea why. Maybe it was because I was five feet nine myself. I never had to lift my head to talk to someone. Until now. And he didn't make it any easier. He didn’t slouch, didn’t bend down, stood perfectly upright,  proud.
I shook myself off, shifting my gaze from the tweed jacket to his face.

"For years I've succumbed to the pressure of misogynists like you. I'm not going to do that anymore. So don't talk down to me.”

"With these proportions, I’m afraid I can't do otherwise," he condescendingly patted me on the head.

He passed me and left the room. And I stood like a numb. Something has changed.

I felt. Finally, I felt something.

It was a fury, but I was knocked out of this bottomless, endless dullness. I didn't run away, and yet something changed.

***

When I got back to the dorm, I immediately made myself a mojito. It was a long day, although it wasn't even three. What a damn smeghead. On my laptop, I turned on a volleyball match. I tried to calm down, but I couldn't. It was a novelty. In the end, I couldn't stand it. I minimized the browser window, leaving the match on one half and opened the second one with the school server. I found a list of people attending economic systems with me, and then I searched for each one on social media. The problem was only a few people, including Ben Solo, who owned Instagram, but there were no personal photos on it. Only coffee, books, art and architecture. So I couldn't tell if solo.b was Ben Solo from my class. Frustrated, I slumped heavily into my chair. But I didn't give up so easily. My mother always said that you have to fight to the end. Whether it was a noble cause or a run for a train. I typed his name into a google search and it almost clogged me. At best, I was expecting some google images photos from elementary school galas or no longer existent accounts. But I had a lot to choose from. There was a whole lot and it was the most up-to-date. Dozens of photos and articles. Because apparently, Ben Solo was the only son of Han Solo and the heir to his company, Solo Industries. As if that weren't enough, his mother was Senator Organa, who had served in Congress for twenty years for New York State. No wonder he loved capitalism. He was it’s golden child. The chosen one. He was the small percentage of the population in whose hands capital and power were concentrated. The American Dream. According to Wikipedia (an extremely reliable source) he was seven years older and graduated in law from Harvard. Law and economics. A bright future. The question is, was he going to follow in his mother's or his father's footsteps?

I spent the whole holiday as a maid in a local motel. No one wanted to hire an eighteen-year-old with no experience in a more prestigious job. And I needed money for the school year, and to be honest, my whims. At this point, takeaway coffee seemed as inaccessible and luxurious to me as dinner at a five-star restaurant. I knew it wasn't a determinant, but I felt inferior again. As if I didn't have a chance to match him. I reopened his Instagram profile. Museums and coffees to go. I felt damn jealous.

***

Ben Solo's hair was always shiny and disheveled, yet it seemed perfectly styled. I could imagine an equal row of expensive shampoos and conditioners in black packages with gold letters in the shower.

Ben Solo smelled like money. In his tweed jackets and black turtlenecks. With Rolex on hand and Montblanc Meisterstück fountain pens. Yes, you heard it right. Not with a pen, but with pens. One could cover the monthly rent in more than one New York City building.

Ben Solo argued with me in every second class. Sorry, he discussed. Interfered. Debated.

Unlike our first encounter, he was irritatingly polite and well mannered. As if he really took my remark about talking down to me to his heart. But he never agreed with me. He always twisted my words. With him, I learned to choose every word wisely. I was studying and preparing for every class, not because the professor required it, but because I couldn't lose to Ben Solo. It was as if he was the one asking me questions. Look at me. I'm not stupid girl. I know it.

And so at the end of September it was:

“Increasing consumption is crucial for economic growth.”

“Take a look at the world around you. Excessive consumerism is the plague of our time. People have not one, but two phones. Not one, but two cars. Fast fashion clothes go from stores, through wardrobes, to wild dumps at the speed of light. It's unethical. Not ecological. And absolutely unnecessary. On the contrary, it’s harmful.

“How else do you want to deal with the crisis? Increasing consumption is a recipe.”

“According to Friedman and the monetarists. Keynes saw it differently. Increased government spending on job creation seems much more wise.”

“Not in the long run.”

"In the long run we’re all dead," I quoted Keynes.

It made me angry sometimes. I never had an opinion of my own. I couldn’t. There was something risky about it. Instead, I listened and read. Then I analyzed it in my head and agreed or not. But virtually, every opinion I have expressed as mine has come from someone else's mouth. I felt safer then. Because if I was wrong then hey! It wasn't my opinion, it was Keynes'. Stiglitz’s. Thaler’s. Veblen’s. They came up with that. If they’re wrong, blame them. People looked at me with admiration when I spoke about something, speaking eloquently and with sense. But I had the feeling that I was a fraud. I didn't say that. I just repeat the words of teachers and scholars. I'm just reading. I am a lector. Bloody liar. Plagiarism after plagiarism.

"Even in the short term." He muttered it through his teeth. “It won’t significantly improve the level of GDP.”

“GDP has nothing to do with growth” People looked at me strangely. “Okay, maybe I overextend a little. But GDP has proven to be a poor measure of quality of life. For example, it doesn’t take into account inequalities. Health. Education. The Human Development Index is much better, and it’s still accused of researching the subject too superficially. And it’s not strictly about economic growth. It’s a means, not an end in itself. Economic growth is to improve people's quality of life. All the people.” I emphasized as I turned my head towards him.

In the middle of October:

“Subsidies are necessary. Without them, it’s impossible to maintain the competitiveness of agriculture.”

“Stiglitz wrote years ago...” I loved the reference to Stiglitz. Ever since I started reading Nobel Prize winners, I have felt better. As if I reached for a secret knowledge that everyone wanted to know, but nobody wanted to read. “For the average cow in Europe, there is a subsidy of two American dollars a day, which is the poverty line according to the World Bank. More than half of the population in the developing world lives on less than this amount. So it turns out that it is better to be a cow in Europe than a poor inhabitant of a developing country. I think subsidies are just another lobbyist tool. Stay competitive? On the contrary. Subsidies are designed to limit the competitiveness of, for example, farmers in Mexico. Keep them in check.

And at the end of November:

“The global supply chain is responsible for a significant reduction in production costs. Even though it seems illogical to produce different components of final products, such as batteries and phone screens in different countries, the numbers speak for themselves. Even including transport costs, it is much more profitable.’

“Profitable, but for whom? Competing on labor costs is nothing more than paying workers less than fair wages. According to Suwandi, the global supply chain is modern imperialism. That is the truth. England, France or Spain are no longer getting richer by exporting gold from America and Africa. Now Apple or Amazon are doing it using their employees. Are the costs cheaper? Of course. But profits aren’t distributed evenly. Globally.”

After these classes, the lecturer, packing the briefcase himself, shouted to the students leaving the room:

“I’d like to remind you that the NYU student initiative is organizing a visit to the Museum of American Finance. Registration for those willing to take part is placed in the hall.”

While leaving the department, I stopped at the table set up next to the entrance. After a moment's hesitation, I signed myself. I didn't have much time that afternoon. The sun was warm, unusual for this time of the year. It asked for a long, autumn walk. But I had to get there, before the library was closed, if I wanted to do an essay on the macroeconomics. Several dozen meters from the entrance, I stood frozen. I couldn’t believe that. There was a real ‘77 Mercedes Millennium in the parking lot. In a beautiful cream shade. Well-kept, shiny, without any scratches.

“Do you like my Falcon?” The voice behind me brought me back to reality. “Don't worry, Rey. Thanks to capitalism, one day you might have one too.”

Ben Solo caught up with me. He wore Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses and fuck. Paired with a black coat and black shirt, he looked hot. But something else caught my attention. He knew my name, even though I didn't introduce myself. The teacher addressed us impersonally, simply pointing with his hand. Yet he knew my name. He asked for me? Was he looking on social media? Doesn’t matter. He had to do something, after all, he knew my name.

“Do you know how much this thing burns?” I replied. Immediately I felt my cheeks warm. He drove it. Of course he knew it’s fuel consumption.

"Certainly not more than me," he replied, putting a cigarette in his mouth. Where's the cigar, I thought mockingly. “Relax, I can afford it.”

“In the last two years alone, the costs associated with the climate crisis have been estimated at six hundred and fifty billion dollars. I look forward to your check.” I smiled, fluttered my eyelashes, and headed for the library. On foot.

***

I treated the trip to the Museum of American Finance as a date with myself. I put on my best skirt, the one with the green and navy blue plaid. I tied a ribbon in my hair, as usual. On the way there, I bought a coffee to go. I took myself to a nice place, and decided to pamper myself. I got there a good fifteen minutes early, but a large group of people had already gathered. I saw a few of them in the department, but I knew no one personally. So I stood awkwardly to the side, pretending to be doing something on the phone. Waiting for us to start, I took out the book I was reading this week, “The Economics of the Future”. I'm not saying that I was taking notes on future fights with Solo, but I was aggressively highlighting the better parts. Besides, the book was honestly, insanely interesting. I finished my coffee and walked two steps from the group to throw away the cup. There, Solo found me. Without a word, he pulled a piece of paper out to me, which I instinctively grabbed.

“What's that?” I asked, lifting it closer to face, to get a better look.

“Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I cannot afford to cover the costs of the climate crisis. After all, I didn't want you to be looking forward to my check. So here it is. Only with a down payment.”

The check was for four million two hundred thousand dollars. My eyes widened.

“There's just a catch. You didn’t specify which dollars you meant.” As usual, he had to twist my words. “It's Guyanese dollars. In ours, is just over twenty thousand.”

He probably thought he was so funny. So smart. He stood there with that defiant smile, waiting for me to crumple the check and throw it in his face. I wanted, God only knew I wanted. But I knew better than that. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the check out in front of me, and folded it neatly in half.

“I'd love to pass it on to one of the climate crisis organizations.” I hid the check between the pages of my calendar. He hadn’t expected this. “I’ll give you the proof of payment at the next class.”

“I will be looking forward to it.”

“I have no doubts about that.” At this point the group began to enter.

"Ladies first," he said. There was something sour about it. I couldn't blame him. He just lost twenty grands.

The guide led us to one of the side rooms, where dozens of trade exhibits were hidden behind glass. The room was at least two stories high. On the side walls, columns were carved in the Ionic order. There were frescoes painted in the niches. The floor was covered with a checkerboard pattern of black and white tiles. The trip so far has been rather enjoyable, following a lazy rhythm. Until two screaming school trips entered the room at once. The children chatted happily. They started to run up to the windows, and point their fingers at the exhibits, calling for colleagues. I couldn’t focus. Too many stimuli flooded me. I started to breathe deeper. I knew it was nothing, but I felt the paralyzing stress overwhelm me. I started to breathe louder. I had to get out of here. I had a mild social anxiety. But I was still able to function relatively normally. Until now. I left the room as fast as I could. It was much calmer here. I leaned against the wall and after a while slid down to the floor. I tried to calm down but couldn't. Oxygen didn’t want to pass through my throat. I couldn't breathe. I started to panic. I could see the blurry shape coming towards me, but I couldn't make it out until the figure crouched, bringing its face closer to mine.

"Hey that's alright," I heard Ben Solo's calm voice. “Breathe. Do you hear me, Rey? Breathe. Look at me. There is no one else here. Just you and me. You and me. I’ll breathe with you. It's nothing difficult, you see? Breathe Rey. Inhale. One, two, three. Hold. Four, five, six. Exhale. Seven, eight, nine. You're doing brilliant. Once again. Inhale. One, two, three...”

Ben Solo breathed with me for the next two minutes. When I finally normalized my breathing, my hands were shaking only slightly.

“It's alright, you see? Wait here. I'll get a bottle of water.” He stood up and hesitated for a moment. “Don’t panic. I'll be back literally in a minute. It's alright now.”

In less than three minutes the man returned. He sat down on the floor, right to me, completely unconcerned with the perfectly ironed, elegant (and probably very expensive trousers), or the shocked eyes of the visitors. He handed me the bottle. I was appalled at the pricing.

“Seven dollars for a small bottle? You can already see why capitalism is not working?” I tried to joke.

“Do you often have panic attacks?” I didn’t manage to put him off his stroke.

"Not really." I could see he wasn't satisfied with that answer. “Since I have been chronically suffering from stress, I have been told that it can trigger it. Sometimes when I'm at the train station or in another busy, crowded place, I have fear or anxiety attacks. But not panic.

I felt hopeless. What else was wrong with me? Couldn’t something be right? Just one thing.

It's alright. Breathe.

“Caffeine is definitely not helping.”

“Coffee is the only good thing in my life, apart from books. You're not taking it from me.” I tried to joke again.

I wanted to change the subject as soon as possible. I was embarrassed that he witnessed it. I didn't want him to see my weaknesses.

"I had panic attacks as a teenager," he replied without hesitation. As if he wasn’t making himself vulnerable to me. He himself handed me a weapon that could hurt him. “A psychologist helped.”

I wanted to be mad at him. Point out that I can't afford a psychologist. Not all of us were so lucky. But I couldn’t. Not when the same gentle words rattled over and over in my head.

Breathe Rey. You're doing brilliant.

Who would have thought Ben Solo could be so... tender?

***

I couldn't sleep, so for the tenth time I did Facebook-Instagram-Twitter circle. At the eleventh refresh, a new photo appeared on the main page. At the same time, a notification arrived. Solo.b tagged you in the post.

Another impersonal photo from the museum. In the background there were faded frescoes and marble columns. And at the front there was chocolate hair tied with a blue ribbon. Ben Solo took a picture of me at some point during the trip, as soon as I turned around. And he just posted it on his profile. Ben Solo had a photo of me.

I looked at the description.

"Just breathe. #TheInvisibleHandOfTheMarketWillDoTheRest."

He couldn’t be serious. Was it supposed to be an olive branch? I argued with myself for a moment, then opened a DMs. Then I closed it. Two tries later, I sent a message.

reyofsunshine

You're impossible. I hate you, Ben Solo.

Not even a minute passed when an answer came.

solo.b

It's funny. I see what you write, but somehow I don't believe you at all, Rey Kanata.

reyofsushine

Yet you believe in the invisible hand of the market. So you will believe everything.

***

 In the first class after the trip, Solo gave up his good manners and without a word of greeting, as soon as I passed his row, he said:
"I don’t see the confirmation of payment.”

"Oh no," I sighed theatrically, putting hand on my ribcage. " I must have mislaid it somewhere.”

I didn't add anything else as I walked over to my seat. I took my phone out, immediately sending a pre-prepared message.

reyofsushine
Have you seen this disastrous press leak? Who could do something so horrible?

Below I sent a link. A screenshot right after it. Home page on Google. In the search bar was his name. And an endless string of articles in the local press.

"Ben Solo with generous donation to an NGO dealing with the climate crisis"

"Ben Solo tries to fix his father's mistakes?"

"Good press or sincere intentions? Ben Solo with a check for Earth Justice"

He opened the article. He was so overwhelmed that he accidentally liked the message with the link. I saw his eyes frantically skimming the screen, skipping every other word. I knew what he was going to read. Something between the words: Earth  Justice has been providing legal support for pro-environmental movements for fifty years, and is Solo declaring a legal career path?

He was so engrossed in the news that, for the first time in class, Ben Solo had to say remorsefully:

"Excuse me, could you repeat the question?"

***

Just before the Christmas break, Finn from the floor above decided to throw a party. I didn’t complain, since I didn't have to go out into the frosty streets. Although the snow still hasn't fallen (I blame climate change), there was something ghastly about the cold nights. The fog smelled like death. The city smelled like smog. I didn't socialize very often, but not because I didn't want to. It was just outside of my comfort zone. All week I’ve been thinking up reasons why I should go. It will be nice. There will be alcohol. You like parties.  Then more excuses why not. There will be a lot of people you don't know. There will be too many stimuli. You may have another panic attack again. In the end, one rational argument prevailed. If something goes wrong, I live just one floor below. I'll always be able to leave. So after twenty pm I was in one of the rooms rearranged for the party. However, only two hours and four drinks later, I had to go back to my room. I wouldn't stay in these shoes any minute longer. I walked down the  staircase, as fast as my aching feet would allow. I came around the corner, grabbing the wooden railing for balance. Ben Solo stopped abruptly two steps below. And he was my height. It didn't look like he was going to move. No chance, I won’t take another step. With a soft sigh of relief, I took off my shoes. The difference increased to three steps, but still manageable.

"You're tall," I said, just to drown out the uncomfortable silence.

"Thank you" he finally took a slow step forward.

"It wasn't a compliment.”

"Oh yes, it was.” Another step. Now we were both standing on the mezzanine. His confidence was damn annoying. Another thing I envied him.

He was standing way too close. I had to look up again. Did I mention that Ben Solo smelled like money? For the first time, however, I saw him without suit jacket or coat. Instead, he was dressed in a black leather jacket.

"If I ask if it's natural leather...?"

"Then you won't be disappointed.”

"You’ll never learn, will you?"

"I'm afraid I won’t," he lifted up one corner of his mouth, but there was nothing mocking about it.

"Well... Have a nice party.” I awkwardly showed the floor above.

He nodded and finally passed me by.

When I found myself in the room, I decided not only to change my shoes, but also to change into jeans and a sweater. Everyone was smoking, and someone was constantly opening the windows to ventilate. I couldn't get sick just before the end of the term. Before I went back upstairs, I rolled two thin joints. Just in case Upstairs, I immediately went to the kitchenette to make myself another cocktail. Soon after, I found myself in the most smoky room, which apparently made for a makeshift smoking room. I sat down on the floor, leaning against the desk. I lit first joint, drinking down smoke with alcohol. After the last marathon of essays, presentations and reports, I had to relax. Get wasted. Reset. When I was in high school, I thought that university was all about elegant clothes, seasonal playlists on  Spotify and sitting with a book in a café, sipping latte or writing papers. Well, it’s not. Student life is sitting, but in a room, in a pulled out sweatsuit and sipping coffee, but four cups in one night, so as not to fall asleep, at the same time crying that you won’t make it before the deadline, because for each paragraph you have to give a footnote to a scientific article, and no one cares that you know it and you can write it out of your head . You have to spend an hour searching for one sentence that someone else has previously written so that you can use it. In my first year Google Scholar became my best friend. The biggest  selfcare  was clearing the room and sorting the notes when it was finally over.

When I finished smoking, I began to walk between rooms unhurriedly. About an hour earlier, karaoke equipment was hooked up in the room in the room at the end of the hall. After the fifth Dancing Queen,  Rose  Tico introduced an informal formal rule - each song could only be played once. I was coming back with a refill when I heard the first seconds of  Pumped  Up  Kicks. I loved that song. My memories have always been strongly connected with music. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad, but even the shortest fragment of the right song was like a time machine for me. This particular song reminded me of that muggy summer, when I didn't have any phobias yet. When nobody cared about the climate crisis yet. When I was sneaking out in the middle of the night. Despite the somber lyrics, this song has always sounded idyllic to me. A memory of a better life. It was sung by a boy. In a lower key than the original, but not out of tune. He was echoed by several people sitting on the couch, which I could see through the open door. I held out until the first chorus, until I started singing myself. I came closer. There was smoke in the room as well, but it was certainly not so dense. The room was covered in a colorful glow, dominated by red. Someone has already hung the lights and put up small Christmas decorations. I leaned against the doorframe. I don't know what shocked me more. Quite drunk Ben Solo standing on the (thank God, solid-looking) desk, holding a tiny microphone that was almost all covered by his big hand, the other holding a cable, or maybe the fact that since our little tête-à-tête he has already got rid of his jacket, exposing impressive shoulders, from the wrists to the edge of his shirt covered with tattoos. All the tweed jackets and button-down shirts suddenly made sense. I stepped closer, standing right in front of him. I defiantly raised an eyebrow in a silent question. What the hell are you doing? But he wasn’t embarrassed. Ben Solo never felt insecure. Self-consciousness was as foreign to him as the concept of guaranteed basic income. Instead, he smiled. Widely and sincerely. It was the first time I’ve seen Ben Solo smile. He held the microphone out towards me. I rolled my eyes, but I started to sing. He leaned down, our faces were separated only by a microphone, and I prayed that in this drunken exhilaration, he wouldn’t trip over and fall on me. But it was... nice. So no matter how hard I tried to be serious, in the end, I involuntarily smiled back. When the song was over, he jumped off the furniture, took a red cup standing on the counter, and handed the microphone over to another person.

"You're like the words of that song," I said. There was something gloomy about him. Pained. I don't know why. I just felt it.

"And you’re like melody," he didn’t deny it.

"Together we have everything.”

"And we don't fit together at all.”

It was one of those undeniable facts. The sky is blue. Honey is sweet. And we couldn't be more different.

I took out a second, slightly squashed joint from my pocket. I held it out in front of me. My own version of the olive branch. This mischievous look touched his face. He nodded toward the hallway. For the second time that night, I found myself in the smoking room. We sat down against the wall, and I let him do the honors.

"What would you say, if I told you I was that kind of kid?" He referred to the lyrics, while lighting up the lighter.

“I’d have told you…” I pictured Ben, who wasn’t good at making friends. Ben, who distanced himself. Ben alone in that huge house. "That I believe.”

"And what if I told you I wanted to do Columbine 2.0?"

I imagined Ben, always being polite, but cold, restrained. Ben, who always wore black. Ben, who had panic attacks. Ben the outcast. Pariah. Ben, who would like to bring justice himself, even though there was no crime. Ben, who only needed the last straw to break the camel’s back. Ben, who was on the verge of breaking, and had no idea how to deal with it.

"I'd tell you I believe," those was his emotions. Although they were long gone, I couldn’t question or judge them. I could only acknowledge them.

"Fortunately, my uncle saw something was wrong in time and took me under his care," he said, handing me a spliff. "What if I told you that I hate capitalism because it wrecked my family?"

"I'd tell you I'm not that gullible," I took a long puff.

"My father is never home. Mother lives in the congress.”

"And you still love capitalism," I finished lightly.

"Yes. You’re right.”

‘A system that gives you deceptive hopes. Oh, is there anything more beautiful?”

"You," he replied without hesitation.

"Okay Solo. You had one too many,” I laughed nervously, and I rested my hand on his bent knee, leaning over him to take the cup beside him, even though I couldn’t speak clearly myself.

He grabbed the cup in his right hand and pulled it as far away from me as possible. Every muscle and every tendon in his hand tightened, and I could see more tattoos on the inside of his biceps. Yin. Or maybe Yang. I could never tell them apart.

“What do your tattoos mean?” I asked, the cup in his hand completely forgotten.

"I beg you, don't tell my mom," I laughed again, but his face emanated a sincere plea.

"Ben Solo, are you afraid of your own mother?"

"So is half of the congress," he replied without a trace of shame.

"Fuck toxic masculinity," I lifted my own cup to make a toast.

I gave him the joint. He took a drag, then stretched his hands in front of him, twisting them, as if he was seeing the ink for the first time.

"I'm right-handed. I love art. On my right hand I have things related to high culture. On the left, pop culture, or doodles I just wanted.”

I looked at right hand. Next to yin  (or maybe yang) was a drawing painted with one line.

"Do you really have tattoo of hand masturbating a brain?"

"This is an interpretation of the painting by the Russian painter, Ilya Filatov. It's easy now, because I'm still studying, but in five, ten, fifteen years, my thirst for knowledge may fade. It is supposed to remind me of constant intellectual stimulation. It is as important as any other.”

"Starry night?" I glanced down his arm.

"Van Gogh is my favorite painter.”

"Between the lips and the voice something goes dying?" I touched a quote tattooed on his forearm, just below the crook of the elbow.

"Pablo Neruda is my favorite poet.”

"I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit?" Another quote that cut across the Greek bust.

"The Picture of Dorian Gray is my favorite book. If I could, I would tattoo every sentence. It changed my worldview. You have to read it. No, you must read it.”

"I read The Picture of Dorian Gray," I replied somewhat indignantly at the insinuation that I might not have done it.

"Then you know. This is the best book ever written.”

"And the rapier?" On the outside of his arm, he had a revolver tattooed, on the handle of which was said word.

"Baz Luhrmann is my favorite director. His version of Romeo and Juliet is the best thing that could have happened to this planet. But I can be biased. I love Shakespeare set in the realities of the twentieth century,” I opened my mouth, but he beat me to it. "Yes. Yes, I love Ten Things I Hate About You.”

"I see that you have received a thorough education.”

"You may be surprised, but I went to public school until high school. I just didn't waste a single cent in taxes earmarked on my education.

I moved to his left shoulder.

In the same place as on the right bicep was the other half of the yin (yang?). The black one. The one that symbolized evil. On the front of the arm, above the bend of the elbow, there were three words, written in capital letters. AUDI VIDE SILE.

"Hear, see, be silent," he explained, before I could ask. Apparently, he must have been watching my eyes all the time.

"I suppose, you learned Latin in a public school?" "I raised an eyebrow defiantly.

"Oh no," he sighed theatrically, taking a sip from his cup. “I studied Latin in a private high school.”

I rolled my eyes. On the outside of his arm, he had a small, round, blue amulet with a peacock’s eye. Nazar. Again, I didn't have to ask.

"Grandma, from my mother’s was Turkish. She always took care of me. When she died, I needed another amulet to protect me.”

Next to the Nazar, in elegant, slanted writing, ‘Excelsior!’ was tattooed.

"Do you love New York so much, or did you tattoo its motto for the purpose of your mother's campaign?"

"That's Stan Lee's  motto.”

"You really wear your heart on your sleeve, don’t you?"

He had a gentle smile on his lips, when he nodded his head slightly.

Undeterred, I continued to trace the patterns on his shoulder with my fingers. On the back above his elbow was another quote. There will be no rest for the wicked.

"I didn't know you were religious.”

"To be able to marry my father, my mother had to convert to Judaism. But it doesn't really matter, because it's the lyrics of the song.”

"So you think rest isn’t for you?"

"I know myself. I know what kind of person I am. Salvation is at the other end of that spectrum.”

"Just because you're difficult, doesn't mean you won't be saved.”

"The fact that it's hard to live with me is one thing. But I'm just a bad person.” He said it calmly. As if he had come to terms with it a long time ago. As if there was nothing wrong with that. It was his trait. And he was going to embrace it.

I didn't know him well enough to argue with him. Besides, from my perspective, Ben Solo was indeed terrible. Everything he believed in was against my values. But a few times I saw how the façade he had built, which he was covering himself up, cracked. And in those cracks I saw good. I could see that he wasn’t completely rotten. Like his tattoo. Ben Solo may have been a bad person. But there was that whit of kindness, warmth and life in him. That little white dot. I recovered and quickly moved on.

"David with bleeding eyes?"  I pointed to the reconstruction of another sculpture.

"I like symmetry. Matches the Wilde’s bust.”

There was only one question on my lips. Who are you Ben Solo?

"Tattoos were a form of therapy for me. When it seemed to me that I had no control over anything, I had no influence on anything, I couldn’t change anything. It was my way of making a change. I didn't think I'd get addicted to them. In the end, it turned out that depression cannot be cured with tattoos.

When he said that, he wasn't looking at me. Between his fingers he was turning over a joint, fire had already died. He put it in his mouth to light it up again.

"Why didn’t you tell that sooner. So far, I've only been to one session. For now, I can't afford more.” Before I thought about what I was doing, I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled aside a piece of my trousers, as much as the fabric allowed me, without taking them off my ass. On the upper part of the thigh there were two small words. "Good girl".

Solo choked on smoke. He had a coughing fit, so he began patting hard on the chest. When he calmed down a little, he said with hoarse voice:

"They should tax it globally.”

"Totally agree," I nodded, buttoning up my pants.

“Did we just agree on something for the first time?”

"I think so.”

"Who would have thought, Miss Engels?" "I glowered at him. "What? You don’t like it? Do you prefer Marx?”

"It would help to balance the budget. And you know it well.”

"Then you could finance your highway to a decent standard of living for the whole  society.”

His words made my mind wander. They pulled out long-hidden thoughts. They triggered them like a catalyst.

"I like to read. But in all European novels written at the beginning of the twentieth century, the communists are always anti-heroes. Like, if it’s said the character is communist, you know it advance that they’re either bad or wrong. At school, I agreed with this, or rather thoughtlessly nodded. But then I became a socialist. I don’t have faith in communism. It doesn't work. I know that. But I am a socialist. I used to be afraid of it. I was ashamed. But now I express my beliefs clearly and surely. But what if I'm wrong? What if in forty years someone will remind me of it? Just as fascism is reproached?”

"You not wrong. You just want a better world. That's not a bad thing. This is not fascism.”

I smiled sadly. I don't know why. His words were comforting.
I’ve always been sad drunk. I've always cried and puked.

"Besides," he contin’ued. "It doesn't matter anyway. As usual, you are wrong and looking in the wrong direction.

"Excuse me?" I asked, suddenly indignant.

That second of harmony and peace, of bizarre  normality was over. Ben Solo was back.

"Don't pretend to be stupid," he snorted in exasperation. "We both know you aren’t. Even with additional budget revenues, there are more important things to finance. The current stagnation can very quickly turn into a crisis and a recession. The most important thing now is to stimulate the business. Provide a good environment for investors.”

"You must be kidding,” I was tongue-tied. “So that the rich become even richer?"

"Otherwise, the whole of society will suffer. And the poorest the most. You should know something about it.”

"You know what, I wanted to give you benefit of the doubt, but fuck you, Solo.”

"Hardworking people have made their money by toiling several hours a day, and you want to take this money and give it to lazy losers. And for what? False concepts and slogans they came up with themselves.”

"Hardworking people like you, I presume? You know very well that most of them didn’t earn money from hard work, but on capital inherited from their great-grandfather, an oil tycoon. "I couldn't help myself, I had to add it. "Or a businessman father. Higher taxes on the rich won’t deplete their capital, but will improve the functioning of the economy. Reducing income inequality improves the quality of life of society as a whole. The poor and  the rich.

"You don't know a shit about the economy.”

"You don't know a shit about the society!” I couldn't stand it and raised my voice.

Ben Solo smelled like money.
He tasted like cheap rum and smoke.
He kissed as he discussed.
Aggressively. With confidence. In a non-accidental and persistent way. Thoughtful. At one point, he bit my lower lip, sucked it in, and then ran his tongue over it. That sobered me up a bit. I didn't even know when he kissed me. He just pressed me against the wall and wouldn’t let go. Somewhere along the way, I forgot to push him away. I had no idea that I had been unconsciously waiting so long for this. Finally, relaxed, I was able to let out my breath. That tingling, unbearable, nervous tension was gone.

***

The bright rays of the sun woke me up. There were seven colorful dream catchers hanging over the bed and lots of piles of books stacked at floor. Each of them was at least half a meter high and they were everywhere. They stood next to the bed, cluttered the shelves and leaned against the side of the desk. They could easily supply a small library. I tried to turn around on a mattress too small for me. Rey was laying on her side. In her outstretched hand, she held a not very thick novel.

"If you're hoping for another round, you'll have to read this first,” without taking her eyes off the text, over the shoulder she threw another book at me, pulled out from God only knows where.

I picked it up, looking at the worn cover. Marx's Communist Manifesto. I looked at the girl laying next to me. Well... Maybe I could see a few advantages of the socialism. Democratic.

I leaned against the pillows, holding the book open on the first page in one hand, gently painting unnamed patterns on the girl's perfectly smooth, naked back with the other.