WebNovels

Chapter 3 - Chapter 2

When Mary stepped out and straightened up, it was clear — there was no dog under her right wheel. 

Sitting there was a man. She could see his grey, greasy strands of hair and the shoulders of a dull coat, speckled with dandruff. 

"Phew!" she exhaled in relief. 

The man's head turned slowly. Pale eyes with red veins stared straight at her. 

*Great. A drunk. Now he'll ask for "compensation" for his health.* 

*How on earth did I not see him?!*

This scam was common around this upscale fitness center. Shabby men and women would throw themselves under luxury cars, giving the drivers mini heart attacks. It usually ended with a small payout — money that the "victim" would spend in the nearby beer shop within minutes.

She walked around the hood. The man's eyes followed her the whole time. 

"How did you even get here?" 

Mary stared at him, barely holding back the urge to snap.

The man began to rise like some creaky folding mechanism — his knees bending like the legs of a compass, elbows jutting out sharply. When he finally stood, he was her height. 

*How could I possibly have missed him? This is insane!*

Dressed in a rumpled, grey robe that hung below his knees, he looked like those creepy uncles in the park who dramatically fling open their coats at lone women — or, more often, teenage girls. Exhibitionists. 

His bloodshot eyes and puffy face inspired zero sympathy. Mary grimaced — but still asked: 

"Did I hurt you?" 

*Ugh, fine. I'll pay him if he really is hurt!*

But the man, carefully choosing his words as if speaking in an unfamiliar language, replied: 

"No, it's fine." 

He stared with unblinking eyes, catching her gaze, and asked: 

"How did you sleep today?" 

*Ugh! What nonsense!* Mary thought, annoyed. Aloud, she said: 

"I slept well today." 

At those words, the grey man shook his head doubtfully. 

"Can I help you with something?" Mary shifted from foot to foot — her trainer would eat her brain if she was late. 

"Oh no," he waved with an elegant hand. The fingers were thin, joints clearly visible, so pale they looked like they'd never seen the sun. 

*Grey child of the dungeon*, Mary thought. 

The man inspired nothing but disgust. A ridiculous obstacle before her daily fitness routine. 

She returned to her car and took out her handbag. Turned toward the shiny building of the sports center. And as she passed the grey man, he began chanting poetry. But she didn't bother to listen. What could this pale creature possibly say? 

Climbing the steps, Mary forced herself to erase the grimace of disgust from her face. 

She nodded and smiled at the girl at the reception desk, walked into the hall — and ran into her trainer. 

A short man, not particularly muscular, considered the best trainer around — but such a bore! He was walking toward her, already looking at his watch.

— Just one minute, sir! — Mary shouted from a distance. 

— You should understand, Mary, that every minute in the gym must be spent productively. Agreed? 

— Yes, sir. 

The wiry bristles of the trainer's moustache twitched indignantly. In his hand, as always, was a rubber expander. Seemed like he only let go of it in his sleep. 

The workout began with the trainer's monotonous commentary. At first, Mary still thought, *What a bore you are!* But soon she stopped thinking altogether, focusing on her muscles. Yes, the trainer was an insufferable know-it-all — but everyone who trained with him had a perfect physique. 

— Slightly bend your knee and feel the lower part of your calf. Can you feel it? 

— Yes, — Mary panted. 

Finally, the machine exercises ended. The trainer glanced at his watch again. 

— You have three minutes to rest, then the treadmill. 

— Mm-hm, — Mary exhaled. In three minutes, the sixth layer of sweat the trainer had wrung out of her would dry — and the seventh would appear on the treadmill. 

She stepped onto the running track, felt the ridged surface under her soles, and turned on the equipment. This final run was her favourite part. She could run mechanically and think about whatever she wanted.

"Something unpleasant happened recently. Left a bad taste," she thought. "Ah yes — the homeless man in the grey coat under her car's wheel." 

Of course, a bum was easy to dismiss and forget. But the unpleasant feeling wouldn't go away. And Mary, mentally spitting to the side, kept recalling that grey, crumpled face, matching the coat perfectly. 

What the hell? Did she have nothing better to think about? Why couldn't she shake this beggar from her mind? 

"He didn't even ask for anything," a thought came. And she forcefully pushed all memories aside — where did this wrinkled guy even stand compared to her? Why keep thinking about him?! 

Better to think of Roman. O-oh, thoughts of him — no matter what she was doing, who she was talking to — always ran in the background, never left her, stayed with her constantly. 

Because she was in love. 

They say it's chemistry. Hormones. Aligned stars. Moon phases. When you simply can't resist. No matter how hard you tell yourself to stay calm. The moment you imagine his hands — your heart pounds harder. Remember his touch — and you're burning up. And what can you do about it? 

She had, of course, called the detective whose card David gave her. The man delivered an unexpected verdict: her Roman was in prison for large-scale fraud. But he hadn't deceived women. The state — yes. And a foreign one at that. 

She asked him point-blank, and he clearly explained the scheme that had earned him millions. It became clear he hadn't robbed late travelers on deserted roads or orphanages. Using his exceptional IT skills, he'd drained a foreign bank. The scheme was clever — though that was all Mary could truly appreciate. The details were beyond her; she didn't have his deep knowledge of programming or electronic payment systems. 

Roman often disappeared somewhere. He said he was trying to return at least part of the money that had once poured into his pockets before prison. She believed him — and didn't believe. She suffered, she was jealous. But she didn't dare hire her detective to follow him. Because she was afraid — if he was cheating and she found out, it would all be over. And she'd be left without his hands, his lips, his eyes, his fascinating stories. 

She'd twitch when he didn't call for too long, swear she wouldn't answer. Then throw herself at the phone, knocking everything over. Or carry it in her hand constantly, afraid to miss his soft cough and that slow, drawn-out: 

— Allooo… 

Every promise to end this obsession went flying into oblivion. And her head would start spinning from his low chuckle and the words: 

— I'm already on my way.

She kept rereading *Theatre* by Somerset Maugham — that scene where Julia throws away the key to her love nest. A dramatic gesture, showing that sex wasn't the main thing in her life. The main thing was her art — and the affair with her young lover was getting in the way. 

Roman was only two years older, and Mary's posing for luxury brand ads couldn't exactly be called "art." But she was afraid of the feelings she had. And no matter how hard she tried to take inspiration from the great actress Julia Lambert, her resolve lasted only until the phone rang. 

"I need to immediately think about something good," Mary told herself, legs moving on the softly humming treadmill. "Oh! Music!" She plugged her earphones into the smartphone in her hoodie pocket, and Dr. Dre's crisp beat poured into her ears. 

Still, it was good she had sports, that she had long been successfully shaping her body. And this shaping brought money — cash, dough, bucks, rials, dollars. Without a second thought, she fed herself the right food. Proteins, fats, carbs — precisely measured and weighed. Meal containers always ready, to be emptied exactly every three hours at the first hint of mild hunger. 

Her appearance was handled by the best specialists. A wonderful hairdresser washed and trimmed her waist-length platinum curls once a week. When a man wasn't quite a man, he often became a person of unmatched taste. 

Her bright eyes, framed by long black lashes, changed color with her mood — light blue when angry, deep blue when she cried — needed little makeup. Yet the makeup artist still managed to make them more expressive, larger, more piercing. 

A top-tier cosmetologist took care of her naturally pink skin — the same one all the city's wealthy beauties dreamed of getting an appointment with. And Mary gladly surrendered to the woman's fragrant hands, knowing she'd emerge transformed, even more desirable. 

A whole team worked on promoting her page in the Famous Social Network. They planned schedules, tracked likes, shares, followers, comments. 

And everything should've been perfect — yet she wanted to cry. 

She was in love. And supposedly, she should be happy. Yeah, right… 

Interestingly, her lover didn't pretend. Mary could see he was sincere. And that won her over. For a moment, she even thought she'd finally found the perfect man. 

"Do such men even exist?" The rhythm of her sneakers steadily tapped the question into the treadmill. Do… such… men… exist? 

Apparently, she was just convincing herself everything was fine, pretending foolishly. And it probably wasn't. And the man who seemed to show her a sky full of diamonds — didn't really do any of that. 

She was simply mistaking desire for reality, easily conjuring diamonds from her own love — and scattering them across the sky.

As always when running, her mind cleared. And a sharp thought emerged: *He has another woman!* It was obvious from the tiniest nuances in his behavior. Yes, yes! 

For example, he never called her by her name. Always made up silly nicknames. Mary smiled, remembering. *And that's so he doesn't get confused among all his women!* She wiped the smile away. 

Or how lately, whenever he read a message, he'd smirk and rub his hands together with satisfaction. 

When, late at night, the familiar sound of a new message came from his phone, Mary would instinctively pretend not to care. But his smug grin left no doubt. *A woman's texting him!* And was this even a normal relationship — when she had to pretend and didn't dare ask? She'd never been jealous before! This feeling was awful, humiliating! 

Her legs tensed and relaxed to the rhythm of Dr. Dre's rap in her ears. Sweat broke out under her arms. She'd keep running until a thin stream ran down her back and the towel around her neck soaked it up, warming her skin. 

Mary turned her head without slowing her pace, scanning the vast hall. 

The row of treadmills was nearly empty. At the far end, two bodybuilders loomed — muscles rolling on their waxed legs, barbell clanging, dumbbells thudding dully. Nice guys, but playing for the other team, even if they didn't advertise it. 

Blue exercise balls were scattered around, weight plates piled in a heap, machines gleaming with chrome. 

Everything here was so familiar! Workouts: Monday–Wednesday–Friday, Monday–Wednesday–Friday. For six years, without a single skip. 

*I don't want workouts. I want him,* Mary thought — then immediately scolded herself: *«Get a grip, you idiot! The last thing you need is to lose your money over some miserable love affair!»!* 

Workouts usually calmed her, but today everything felt terrible — because… 

Last night, her treasure had gotten up and gone to the kitchen — to text someone. Her beloved Roman had slipped out on tiptoes, quietly tapping on his phone. But she'd woken up, lying with open eyes, staring at the ceiling, thinking: *This has to end. Right now. Get up, go to the kitchen, and tell him to get out. Or tomorrow, call my detective, tell him to trace those damn texts. Let whatever happens — happen.* 

But when he returned, excited, cool on the outside but burning within, she gave in to his hands, thinking: *Oh, how I love him!* 

Ugh, how disgusting! Mary sped up. Dr. Dre's steady rhythm no longer matched her frantic pace. But she didn't stop to change the song. She needed to *run out* these humiliating feelings, exhaust herself completely, so she'd want nothing and no one. Then — the pool. A kilometer or two, as far as her breath would last. 

She turned off the music. The earphones hung like limp cords. The blue, metallic-looking exercise balls blurred past faster. Mary increased the speed. She'd never run this fast before. She wished she could just run and run — until she dropped dead. Then all her problems would be solved. 

Suddenly, it was as if bolts in a fairy-tale castle had slammed shut — the ceiling lights flickered and went out all at once. The treadmill jerked to a halt. The hall plunged into darkness. One of the bodybuilders shouted from the far end — then everything fell silent. 

Mary grabbed the handrails, increased her pace, desperately moving her feet on the motionless belt. *Who cares that there's no light? They'll fix it in a second.* She kept running her "death mile" — that's what experienced athletes called it. No trainer would ever allow it: trying to power a frozen treadmill with your feet. It was practically impossible, and of course, Mary wasn't making it move. But she kept slamming her sneakers into the rubber, pressing down with her whole sole, as if trying to spin the Earth on its axis. 

She ran, gripping the handrails with sweaty palms, gasping for air with her mouth wide open. Her heart pounded in her throat, breathing grew harder. Sneakers thudded dully on the belt, the sound echoing in the silent hall. She whispered, 

— I'll keep running until my heart bursts! 

Then she snapped at herself, furious: 

— Are you tired of living? 

And then — a cold wind hit her in the face. Her feet, in soft sneakers, felt not smooth rubber, but bumps and ruts. The handrails vanished. 

Mary, arms flailing, trying to keep her balance, flew forward, tripped over a huge stone, gasped, and fell. Her palms burned. 

She lay face down in the dirt, mouth open in a silent scream, sand crunching between her teeth. She froze, listening. Then rolled onto her back, stared tensely at the dark sky. Unbelievably clean air filled her lungs. It smelled of chamomile and wormwood. 

Above her hung massive stars, and rising over the horizon — a yellow-green moon, the color of a chamomile core, old and fading. 

*The moon smells of chamomile and wormwood,* she thought. And then: *O my God! Where am I?*

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