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But since she really loses her patience, and the thought that in this big house there will probably be a couple of hammers of different caliber continues to peck my head, I reluctantly “put on” a businesslike expression and turn the conversation to the subject, for which, in fact, I came.

– Margarita… may I call you that? – I like the sound of her human name. And I like that it suits her so damn well.

Instead of answering, she brushes my question off as something insignificant. And I hover again for a while at the slight rippling of her sweater around her chest and uncomfortably pull my jacket up, hoping that at least it doesn’t give away my thoughts so obviously.

It turns out I was hoping for nothing.

– I’m sick of it. – She throws up both hands and pulls her phone out of her pocket. – It’s not enough that you show up at my house unannounced, but you also allow yourself to shamelessly paw me with your eyes.

– Do you think the police will accept my dirty thoughts as evidence of sexual harassment? – I put my hands expressively in my pants pockets.