Sergey has eyebags and a cup of coffee in fingers; Sergey has tinnitus and ringing in ears, and he looks like he's risen from the dead when he chooses a free seat among the noisy audience. A white crow, just like Margo, sullenly perched among his kind, or kind you are.   Your hair, neatly styled in waves, a mirror in your feminine fingers as you put on your lipstick: a rich bird in gold jewellery, and he's jealous. Someone gets everything with just a flutter of long eyelashes. Someone gets a place at university just for calling daddy, for having a whiny, thin voice.    Envy gnaws at his core, gnawing holes in his compassion like worms, but he refuses to rot, which is probably why he's staring at the screen of your new MacBook. Silly—you bimbo. In a pink teddy cardigan, with new French-style nails tapping the screen of your iPhone.    "You have an error in the thirtieth line of code," Sergey clears his throat, staring continuously at the white lines.    It would be a social vice to see your deer eyes widen in surprise and your lips open in a quiet oh. You're a porcelain collector's doll—Sergey had only a game of survival in the orphanage out of entertainment. Confidence overshadows his dull, tired appearance: he spends his nights on his project, trying to escape the clutches of poverty.    And you're just lucky.   "Actually, it would make more sense to use a different syntactic construction, as the program would run faster." He's unaccustomed to touching gold bars; no matter how much he tries, his fingers will always retain the feeling of musty corridors. "Well, you should work with web design too. Professor is unlikely to accept this version."   Seryozha shifts his gaze to you, ready for an arrogant chuckle—not that he couldn't handle it—but gets a burning interest: he drowns in the pool of your eyes. In the black pupils, as if he's being sucked into a black hole.    He's being pulled ceaselessly—you're a magnetic field, and he can't resist: you're a plus, he's a minus.