– Why aren't you at the concert? – I asked unhappily.

– I heard that some cretin had annoyed my little sister. – He turned back round.

– As you can see, I did fine without your interference! – Even the thought that Martin thinks I'm weak, on par with mortal women, thinks I can't defend myself, offended me. To the depths of my soul. If I still had one.

– I've noticed. Shit, what's wrong with your mood? – Martin put his arm round my shoulders. – Come on. I'll put you in a taxi and take you to the club.

– I didn't feel like it. – This time I was telling the truth: the only thing I wanted was to lock myself in my room and lie in bed, under the duvet. All night. All day. – No need to sacrifice your concert. You go. I'll get to the hotel just fine.

– So you're going to a hotel?

– Yeah.

We were walking down the street. My arms were crossed on my chest.

– Shall we meet tomorrow? – Martin suggested it.

– I'll call you. Go to your concert," I said.

– They're taking a five-minute break. Something with the microphone.

– So that's why you're with me now! – I laughed.

Well, I got mad at him for nothing!

– Yes, and in those five minutes I can get you in a taxi and back. There's a taxi just round the corner. That's why I like Gdansk. Have you wandered round the city yet? – Martin looked very happy.

– Not yet. Shall I? – I asked.

– You tell me yourself.

– Where did you leave the Snow Maiden?" – I asked, suddenly realising that I hadn't seen my brother's car for two days. A white Volvo. A sedan. Martin affectionately called it "Snow Maiden" and washed it almost every day. By hand.

– In the garage. Let it rest," he said.

– Yes, it's a big city, and she's so tired, poor thing! – I snickered. – Did you wash her today?

– Of course I did.

– Doesn't it bore you?

– How often do you wash your car? – Martin asked in an ironic tone, instead of answering.

– I don't know. Once a week.

– If I were your car, I would have found a more caring owner a long time ago.

***

Elle magazine sent a request for a shoot.

My fingers are on the keyboard of my MacBook.

Yes or no.

A simple question. But I've been staring at the monitor for four minutes now, and I don't know which to choose.

Gloss. It's that damn gloss again.

I type, "Thank you for your interesting offer, but at the moment my work schedule does not allow…".

But. This shoot can take my mind off my perpetual thoughts and musings. From my unhappiness.

I press Backspace.

And once again, the field is blank.

"Thank you for your interesting offer. It would be my pleasure…"

Backspace.

At the mere thought that after such a success as the first exhibition of my truly worthwhile work, the world of glossy art would once again seize me with its slippery multi-coloured clinging tentacles, I was terrified. I have to break free. Do decent work. Be worthy. And the gloss pulls me down to the bottom of its sticky swamp.

But my tired mind has already seen the little welcome respite it will get from fake smiles and flashy clothes.

"Thank you for the interesting offer. I can't give an answer now, I need to check my work schedule. I'll give an answer tomorrow."

Send.

With a sigh of relief, I lean back on the headboard of my bed. I look round my large bedroom. It's classic, kept in light colours. Not a single interesting interior idea. The curtains are the colour of coffee and milk – too light, made of fine silk, and the sun will shine through them. Obliterate me. I'll have to call reception and demand they replace them with darker ones, preferably black and thicker, albeit cheaper.