Sometimes they do meet. Sometimes, despite the accumulated experience and all the prayers of prudence, you again fall for an already familiar and therefore even more offensive trick.

Ada's predatory smile enters your heart like a knife into warm butter, and now you are already drinking wine at the nearest hotel. Whether in endlessly busy New York, in Milan warmed up in the sun, in Paris pink at dawn.

What the hell difference does it make if the glass is full, and Ada is just Ada, with all her needles right under your nails and stilettos under your ribs?

New York. Milan. Paris. At least in the middle of nowhere. The scenery is just a backdrop, a backdrop for a small chamber tragedy, nothing more.

The main thing is the script, and it's the same all the time.

What is Ada doing here? Where did she come from? How is she doing? Has she sold the whole world or some tidbit of it yet? Ada is impeccable and accurate in her testimony, all her routes perfectly converge on something decent and legal, which means she is shamelessly good again, god, how good she lies.

"You're growing up," Ada says laughingly and a little haughtily, when for the first time you tell with gloomy confidence that you saw this sunset in a coffin, and they're not here for romance anyway. "So soon, maybe you'll get smarter."

Ada leaves the balcony to pour herself more wine. Actually, it seems like a chance for you. A respite.

She returns, leans against the railing and sips from her glass, leaving traces of matte lipstick on the thin crystal rim. Of course, she won't say something nice and cozy. She won't say she missed you (it wouldn't have occurred to her). She won't say she's glad to see you, but it's at times like this that you finally lose. Time after time, by the way, like the most hopeless fool in this world.

You won't get smarter.