It was not like I didn’t have it coming. Every ordinary person is expected to wait for the Grim Reaper’s knock on your door, and his visit into my house had been long, long overdue. It was not, however, like I was ready to invite the bastard in.

“Are you sure?” Degaré’s voice was, as per usual, unnervingly sweet and filled with that half-arsed morality he insisted to push into our quite libertine lifestyle. “Many of us have gone. It’s not like I wouldn’t understand…”

He looked particularly handsome on his lab coat and messy golden curls. Ever since medicine became a thing, I had a thing for doctors, and Degaré didn’t make it any easier. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his Botticelli face not matching at all his quite manly figure. Making love to him was always an ordeal, as peering to long into his face guilt-tripped me into feeling like a pedophile.

“Don’t worry, love.” I replied, then. “Or worry. It’s not like I plan on being anything other than alive.” After all of these years, no matter the language which I spoke, the accent lingered. Such was the way, when you are born and raised in the Russian language. “When the time is right, I’ll call upon you again.”

“You can call me sooner.” He replied. I was forced to sigh. Degaré attempted to sound seductive, but the inevitable pout in his mouth made him look like a child who lost his favorite lollipop. Which, somehow, he did.

And for that reason alone, I shrugged and left his apartment; without needs to say any other words – but not before getting into his fridge and getting some of the juice.

The streets of downtown Rio were always crowded this time of the day. It seemed odd, that after all these years I disliked crowded places – the main reason for staying alive, after all, always seemed to be the people who inhabited the Earth, and yet, there I found myself disliking each time more the very life that I once coveted. Almost instinctively – and ironically – that thought led me into to sucking the straw, feeling the juice fill my throat. It was just as bitter as existence.

The universe seemed like the most proper place to find what I looked for, and sooner, rather than later, I was before it, regretting my decision right after. A bunch of young adults stood on the stairs, smoking their cigarettes and talking about the inevitability of the Soviet Revolution. I disliked one of these. Maybe I should’ve gone to the med school. Those kids were always the healthiest. Alas, I was here already. Perhaps the day wouldn’t be an entire waste – sometimes I enjoyed being optimistic.

I received all sorts of glances as I walked in – I mean, who the fuck wears trench coats and hats in Rio? Me, of course. Under this sun, I had to protect my skin lest I wanted to get skin cancer, that nasty thing. And while sometimes I liked to believe me to me extremely stylist, I knew my looks were odd. Under the protection of the roof, I finally removed my coat and hat, missing in all the sudden how, in the past, vallets would take yours and keep it safe until your exit, so people wouldn’t have to walk around with their extra layers of clothing. That made me sigh.

You must be wondering, my dreaded reader dear, why do I care about vallets? Of course, if you are half as smart as I assume you to be, by now you must have realized that regardless of my dashing looks I am quite old, and thus, quite old-fashioned. While technology has its appeal, I find it that some of the charms of the old world are lacking in today’s affairs. For once, I quite enjoy tinder for the occasional hookup, thou I quite miss how courting worked in the past – quite more exquisite than swiping left or right. I used to have my own card, with my name in exquisite calligraphy right in the middle. At the top corner left it read: ‘FOLD HERE TO FILL MY HEART WITH JOY’. At the left corner it read: ‘FOLD HERE TO HURT ME SO’. Both men and women, when faced with such a dashing, elegant and refined brunette like me would soon return the card with the prospective of weeks of romantic delight with the long haired and tall handsome gentleman that I am.

I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the creator of tinder was inspired by one of my cards.

Alas, once again, I digress. You must be wondering what an old soul like me does in the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, amongst the younglings. And, in my grace, I shall ease your curiosity: I look for someone I don’t know quite yet.

Standing by the main hall, I admired and analyzed those coming and going, fidgeting with my hair. There seems to be a line for food, and I’m suddenly glad to be here at this time, when all of these students are there, ripe for the picking. A boy on his earlier twenties looks like a good match, almost as tall as I, but upon realizing how handsome he is, I decide it that this dreaded world will be more of a bad place without him. Next to him, a shorter boy with beard and moustache, but by the trembling on his hands I realize it that he’s into something, and thus, an awful match.

And then I see it, a girl, of short hair and pretty face. She has no beauty to die for, or to kill for; but there was something just pleasant about her. Perhaps it was the way she smiled without willing to, merely out of social convention. Her brown eyes were sad, and somehow, I liked it. But more importantly, she seemed to be fit, her cheeks flushed and irrigated with what I assumed was the healthiest of blood.

And so, cutting out the line, I bowed to my waist like we were on the XVIII century, bringing on my most dashing smile.

“Good day to you. My name is Krischenko.”