The clock on my desk shows 6:42. Every morning I wake up exactly at this time, regardless of the situation, the weather, the time zone, or how is yesterday ended. I'm not one of those people who lies around in bed aimlessly and wastes precious minutes. I open my eyes and immediately feel alert and ready for action. I spend about 10 minutes getting myself ready, after which I feel an irresistible urge to eat.
6:52. Breakfast. Basically, anything. Ideally, it should be a simple, high-calorie combination of protein and carbohydrates. Today, it's green tea and a couple of sandwiches with cheese and ham. It's at moments like these that I feel most alive. And, perhaps, most animalistic.
I carefully bite, chew, and swallow piece by piece, feeling the food begin to digest. The fast carbohydrates I consume are almost instantly returned in the form of increased endorphin levels. Slowly finishing my tea, I look around.
The spacious studio apartment is brightly lit by daylight from a tall semicircular window with a bay. Outside the window is the Parisian sky, blocked by Parisian rooftops. There is a table, a couple of chairs, one of which I am now sitting on, and a kitchen area with a refrigerator, microwave, and hob. Everything is in muted gray-green tones with a touch of cold metallic. The light synthetic carpet on the floor somewhat reduces the overall practicality, but, in my opinion, adds coziness.
It's funny, but in these moments of morning calm and relaxation, I think about my little sister, whom I hardly remember. I often try to talk to her in my mind, but of course she never answers. Just like now.
"Do you think we should put a flower there? A big one, in a pot," I ask her in my mind. "No?"
Instead of an answer, I feel a sudden increase in anxiety. I know that this is a false feeling caused by inactivity and unproductive thinking. I glance at the clock. 7:04. It's time to train.
I always start with a quick warm-up. Just to warm up a little, but not to get carried away. A set of sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, and then a finishing touch with a bench press. Unlike many people, I never train to music. It distracts me and, by breaking my concentration, turns the whole process into a waste of time.
However, there is no perfect silence around me either. Not now. Not in this house. There are shouts coming from the common hallway outside my apartment door. Judging by the voice, it's my neighbor, but it doesn't sound much like him. My opinion on such situations is this: if something doesn't stop, it won't stop on its own. So I put down the barbell, get up from the bench, and leave the apartment, throwing the door wide open.
In the corner, with a broken nose, huddles Jean-Pierre, a short, slender Frenchman who lives in the apartment across the hall. Standing over him is a black guy. He doesn't live in our building, but I clearly remember seeing him hanging around the nearby streets more than once. Apparently, he waited for the clumsy Jean-Pierre at the door to snatch the bag where he always carries his camera and all kinds of accessories. It was not difficult for the black man. He is tall, a head taller than the Frenchman, and much stronger. Now we will see how strong...
I appeared too loudly, so the African immediately turns around, but cannot adequately assess the threat, even though I am slightly taller than him. I decide that the situation and company are not conducive to a noble fight, so I immediately deliver a proven kick to the shin. Perhaps I misjudged my strength and damaged the poor guy's periosteum. Medical care will cost him a pretty penny. In any case, it greatly surprises and knocks the black guy off balance. Howling in pain, he sinks to the floor.
However, I consider it necessary to continue the conversation. Pressing my knee into his spine and pinning him to the floor with all my weight, I carefully bend his right arm back, slightly dislocating it from the shoulder joint with a small crunch.
"I see you often in our neighborhood, nigger... And I'd like to see you less often. Much less often! Do you understand me?!"
"Yes," he groans, writhing in pain like a wounded monkey.
With a quick movement, I search his pockets, take a small folding butterfly knife and a crumpled wad of worn banknotes, then let him go.
"That's payment for the inconvenience. Get lost."
Holding his dislocated arm and limping, the African hurriedly retreats down the corridor toward the stairs. I pick up the bag from the floor and give it to Jean-Pierre.
"Thank you," he replies, holding his broken nose and awkwardly rummaging through the bag in search of his keys. Yes, if he continues to be this clumsy, he will surely be robbed right at his doorstep.
I silently return to my apartment and resume my interrupted workout. The brief adrenaline rush from the altercation in the hallway has slightly increased my breathing and pulse. However, this is beneficial because it enhances blood flow and oxygen exchange, which helps maintain natural muscle tone.
After finishing my workout and taking a shower, I settle into a comfortable chair with a book of Sartre, waiting for my long dark hair to dry. I don't like using a hair dryer. It makes my hair brittle, requiring me to constantly trim the ends. I don't like paying too much attention to my hair. It would be much easier to shave my head, but there's a reason I don't do that.
"Sweetie, you have such beautiful hair," says the woman from my memories, stroking my head. I don't remember her face, but for some reason I know it's my mother. It's probably the only memory of her that remains in my head. I know much more about myself and my sister, but even that is damn little.
A knock on the door distracts me from my thoughts. Jean-Pierre stands uncertainly on the threshold, holding a colorful box in his hands.
"Candy?" I guess.
"Yes," he smiles stupidly.
"That's nice. Come in."
"You really helped me out. You literally saved me," he says, stammering, looking around, and puts the candy on the table.
"No need to thank me. We're neighbors, after all..."
"But we don't know each other at all."
"Your name is Jean-Pierre, you're a photojournalist, you moonlight for a couple of smudge newspapers," I take out a second cup and pour tea.
"And You?"
"you," I smile.
"Oh! Sartre! The Frenchman notices the book I left on the arm-chair and picks it up.
"Also Jean-Pierre, though he wasn't quite as fierce on the philosophical front..."
"And your name is probably Jean-Claude?" He turns around and smiles in response to my rudeness.
"You've become bold, I see... My name is Vera, but I can also kick you out," I sit down at the table and unwrap the candy.
"Let's not test that!" Jean-Pierre waves his hands, laughing. "So, Veronique?!"
"Vera, the frog lover. Vera. Two syllables, stress on the first... Sit down."
Jean-Pierre sits down opposite me and looks at me with interest.
"Are you German?"
"I'm Russian."
"Oh... An athlete, right?"
"Well, almost..." I smile. "Head shooting."
"Biathlon?" The guy doesn't understand.
"The French Foreign Legion."
"Oh! Wow!"
I happily devour the candy. Bitter chocolate on the outside and a light cream filling on the inside. The glucose is absorbed and goes straight into my bloodstream. Responding to the sensations of the taste buds, the brain releases another dose of cheap endorphins.
"I thought only guys served there."
"Officially, yes."
"This is the first time I've met a real legionnaire..." Jean-Pierre continues, "Maybe I should interview you or something?" Anonymously, of course. I could sell it and give you a share...
"I'm not interested," I shake my head.
"No?"
"No."
"That's a shame... What if I just invite you to a restaurant in the evening, for example?" There's a nice place right around the corner. What do you say? He smiles awkwardly again and looks expectantly into my eyes.
"I'll say that you're very pushy."
"Does that mean yes?"
"It means I have a schedule. No matter what time you come to pick me up, we'll have to say goodbye at 10 p.m." So hurry up. And you pay for everything, of course. No splitting the bill. That's not customary among Russians.
"Yes, of course..." He takes a sip of tea from his cup. "I just want to say that... you're very interesting."
"Yes, I know. Did you finish your tea?"
"Yes."
"I'm free."
Still smiling foolishly, Jean-Pierre gets up and leaves. It seems that I did make a positive impression on him after all, although I have definitely forgotten how to communicate with men.
"Do you like him, little sister? You're not saying anything... Oh, well."