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dress up in a way I never used to, that fortified me with a couple of glasses of wine and sent me out to explore the city’s bars. There, I soon got quite drunk since I wasn’t used to drinking, good girl that I’d always been. So when the man whose name I still do not know started caressing my buttocks during our dance, I pressed myself harder to him.
    When we arrived at his small, messy dorm room, I found out that he was a couple of years younger than I. To my surprise, I also noticed that he was both shy and insecure in my company. As I’d always thought I’d be the one to be shy and insecure in a situation like this, I started feeling something I’d like to call a power high. I felt strangely cruel.
    We sat on two chairs opposite each other, drinking instant coffee, and my irritation grew with each sip I took. In various ways, I tried insinuating that I hadn’t come home with him just to have coffee and chat, but he pretended not to hear my hints. Instead, I could tell from his face that he felt pushed further and further into a state of confusion and gloom. It wasn’t that he didn’t want me. I could tell that he wanted me, my callous eyes could see that. But he didn’t have the nerve.
    I felt in some way clinically evil, and I enjoyed it. I didn’t feel sorry for him at all. Instead, I regarded him with a passionate severity. He was struggling to free himself like the wingless fly a little girl had placed on an anthill. Now that I had become someone I was not, now that I’d started the game, he too had to join. I wasn’t going to let him bail out like a kid when the game gets too scary, to bail out whining: I don’t want to play anymore.
    When we’d finished our coffee and nothing happened and the clock was ticking toward three-thirty in the morning, I went and lay down on his bed. I was on my back, looking at him, and he sat glued to his chair, looking back miserably.
    I could whip him, I thought, almost lustily. The notion caught me by surprise, I usually did not think or feel such things. At the same time, there was something oddly familiar about the feeling, an echo from far away. A quivering tension.
    â€œNow that you dragged me to your place, you damned well better do something about it,” I hissed at last.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said.
    He finally came to me. We turned out the light and our clothes flew across the room. Naked in the dark, we turned into small animals. After a while, our hands and tongues and lips made all the insecurity and contempt vanish. We had sex over and over again until dawn became morning.
    Waking up hungover the next day and realizing I wasn’t lying next to Kosti but a complete stranger, I felt terrible. I didn’t want to look at him and I didn’t want to know his name. I didn’t want to see him wake up and I didn’t want to exchange a word with him ever again. I didn’t even want to get close to thinking of what had happened during the night; I just wanted to erase it from my memory. So I carefully snuck out of bed and gathered my clothes. I quickly showered him off my genitals, got dressed, and padded out.
    Since then, I have never been with a man. And I doubt it will happen again. I don’t know why I say “doubt” – it will never happen again.
    A few weeks later, I realized that my period had decided not to come. My relationship with Kosti was now irrevocably over. I had no thought of an abortion. I was going to show Kosti how serious my desire to have children was. To have a child now. How much he’d hurt me when he’d forced me to let our child be fathered by someone else. How badly he had wronged the child.

December 22
    An odd thing happened upon receiving Kosti’s letter. I didn’t want it to happen, but I suddenly saw myself as part of a story. And it was about me, about Marta.
    Everything inside me resists it, but it is as if the story presses