ISBN 978-5-0056-1725-5

      Created with Ridero smart publishing system

      Chapter 1

      «My name is, Miranda Spikes. I am 25 years old. Okay, place of residence:…»

      – Excuse me!?

      The lady in the grayish, knitted dress, tore her head away from the book and looked at me.

      – Yes, ma’am?

      – In the column «Residence», should I indicate where I currently live or where my ancestors live?

      – Okay, let’s see. – I gave her the bank. – Where you currently live, that address, write it down.

      – That’s great. Thank you.

      The lady smiled and went back to her book.

      «Well, let’s see…»

      «Residence: 90/38 46th Street, Ottawa, Ontario. What’s next? Place of work: ARTNOVA Design Studio».

      – Um…» The lady looked up again. – I’m sorry again, but why would I write on your form what I do for a living?

      – This is so we can order professional literature for you later, ma’am.

      – Oh, I see. Although…

      – Ma’am, write what you think is necessary. This is only a survey, no one will use your data for greedy purposes.

      – I don’t doubt it.

      Half an hour later, I ran into the library, on the corner of 10th Street and Maria Blu-Sae Avenue. Its building resembled the local café, with large glass windows and colorful marketing posters about events and courses in foreign languages. For me personally, the library is a bookish place. And books are unique in my life.

      For the last couple of years, I’ve devoted myself to the majestic mission of reading 100 books on various topics. Whether it’s even a hard science book or a dystopian novel by a little-known creator. Reading for me, quite an entertaining process. If the book is boring and not fascinating, then I can read it for weeks, if not months. If a book kept me in suspense from beginning to end and never ceased to amaze me, I would swallow it in a few hours.

      In two years I read only eighteen books, for which I didn’t spend a cent, thanks to the library. I didn’t have a specially prepared list, but still, from time to time I kept an account of what I had already read, in my own notebook.

      Now I picked up the novel Nine Monkeys, by Paul Rivers. I just walked over to the rack of books, and when I got to the middle of them, I pulled one of them out. Anyway, naturally, I directed my attention to it, just because of the attractive blue cover. When I read the title of the book, which had monkeys under it, I realized that I might have to renew it at the library, and more than once.

      Before I checked out the book, the librarian handed me a questionnaire, which I was now filling out with particular care. I spent a good few10 minutes on it, though there were only5 a few questions in the questionnaire. I got hung up on the fourth one, which asked, «What kind of books do you like? This was a difficult question for me, because I could not impartially assess what I had read. Well, I didn’t choose books by preference, either. So, I entered the last book of poems by Mike Lewis that I read, gave the questionnaire to the lady in the knitted dress, and took a book with monkeys, and left the library.

      It was February, but the sun was shining so brightly that it felt like spring had arrived. I glanced at the watch I wore on my right hand, and walked briskly toward the subway station. It was seven past four, which meant that I still had two hours left in my supply before the whale show, which I meant to watch after buying some popcorn.

      The subway ride from the library to my house was only minutes20, and I had to walk another minute5. From time to time I stopped at Starbucks to buy my own favorite cinnamon latte with a puff of cinnamon creamer. It took me an extra seven minutes to get home. And so it was every weekend.

      I decided to skip the coffee now, and headed straight home. I was living in a high-rise, on the fourth floor, in a two-room apartment with one bathroom and a studio kitchen, together with my friend, Miranda Morgan. At this moment, she was not at home, as she went to shoot in Australia, and will stay there for at least a week. By the way, Miranda is not a model, but a photographer, and quite famous.

      – Miss Spikes, there’s a letter for you. – Frank-the concierge at our building-stopped me when I opened the front door and strode briskly to the elevator.

      – Me? I walked over to Frank. – Thank you.

      – What are you reading now?

      I tucked the letter into the inside pocket of my bag and turned the book in my hand and looked at the man.

      – Roman.

      – Fascinating? It looks like a children’s book.

      – Maybe. I just got it from the library, so I don’t know if it’s exciting or not yet. Thanks again for the letter, Frank.

      The man nodded back at me, and I stepped into the elevator.

      Aunt Jo called me just as I took off my cherry-colored wool coat and hung it up in the hallway.

      – Yes?

      – Hello, Violet! – My aunt had the soft, purring voice I’d grown to adore.

      – Hello, Auntie.

      – I finally got through to you. You’re not ignoring me, are you?

      – No, you don’t!

      – When loved ones avoid communicating with their relatives, it is very bad.

      I went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water and took a big sip.

      – Uh-huh.

      – Yesterday I sent you an invitation to the fundraiser. You got it, didn’t you?

      – Just now.

      My current viewing of the white whale show flew by.

      – That’s good. Then I’ll tell your daddy you’re coming. And keep in mind, honey, if you don’t show up, it might upset someone. And we don’t want that, do we? Do we?

      – I figured you out.

      – I’m sure that’s exactly what it is. See you soon, then.

      – Uh-huh.

      After talking to Aunt Jo, I ate a cheese sandwich and drank a glass of milk. I didn’t like cooking or cleaning, but every once in a while, I made an exception, like yesterday. It was a nice feeling to wake up in the afternoon and walk into the living room and see the clean dishes in the kitchen and things neatly in their own places, not lying on the floor or the couch, as they usually did when I worked.

      My father helped me to buy this apartment, although I gave the bulk of the money for it myself. I have a well-paid job, so I managed to save some money, but unfortunately, it was not enough to buy the apartment. At that time it was ashamed to ask my father for money and it seemed to me that the apartment was not worth the effort. But at this point, after living here for almost four years, I thought my modest apartment was almost heaven on earth.

      Later, after a while, Miranda came to live with me. We’d been friends since high school, so when she was in trouble, specifically without a roof over her head and without a job, I offered to let her stay with me. Since then, we have been living together. I didn’t give her my bedroom and put her in the living room. Although in reality, I still lived alone, since Sue was always on the road because of her work.

      At one time, when my friend was dating a mannequin, I had to stay in my father’s apartment, so there wouldn’t be any terribly uncomfortable moments. One day, I came home early from work and found the couple making love on the table. After that, I probably couldn’t eat at the table or look my friend in the eye for a month or so, much