I drove up to the college, put the car in the car park, put on my Oxford cap and went to the ceremony. Everything happened routinely: the greetings of the professors and the management, the subservient faces of the students who, at anything, raised a murmur of applause, the announcement of the Chancellor's hopes that we would be worthy of the title of student at Oxford, such an ancient, conservative and reputable university, and so on and so forth. Then there was the ceremony of vows, the general rejoicing, the chirping, the shouts of «Now for the pub!». It was all banal. I was dejected, not sharing with mortals their joy: of course, to go to Oxford was for them happiness, God's grace, but for me it was a chore and an obligation, first of all, to myself.

Since I was a hundred years old I had lived without the supervision of my family, alone, thinking it a shame to annoy my parents, for they had fulfilled their task of bringing me up and teaching me everything, so let them live at their pleasure.

As the day did not bring me any new emotions, I got into the car and drove home. As I drove out into the central part of town, I found myself behind a blue bicycle and the girl sitting on it as she was riding straight down the driveway, not in the bike lane.

«What the hell is she doing?» – I signalled for her to move off to her side of the road, but the girl didn't think to do so.

I honked again. To no avail.

And I drove at the speed of a turtle, boiling with irritation: behind me there was a long line of cars honking at me. Me! As if it was my fault for dragging along like a dead sloth! After a while, I decided to teach the stubborn bicyclist a lesson, so that she would finally get off on her damn bike lane, and I stepped on the accelerator, thinking that the clang of the wheels would scare the girl and she would get off, but instead, she suddenly stopped abruptly and I just hit her.

The girl fell off the bike.

«Shit! Just what I needed!» – I thought grimly, though I rarely used that expression, but this was the right moment for such a statement that accurately captured my emotions.

I stopped the car abruptly, so that the car behind mine almost kissed the bumper of my Mustang, and got out to see if the girl had been hit hard. I knew it was bad though, in fact she must have broken something.

The girl was sitting on the road, apparently not realising what had happened: her high hairdo had disintegrated and her long, beautiful golden hair had fallen down her back and chest. A bicycle with a bent rear wheel lay beside her.

I walked over to the girl.

– I apologise, miss. I hope you're okay? – I asked, bending towards her.

She raised a fury burning gaze at me.

«Maria?» – rushed through my mind, barely seeing the marvellous, familiar features.

– Maria? – I involuntarily burst out loud.

– He asks for forgiveness! How honourable! Do you think I don't know that you ran me down on purpose!? – the girl exclaimed angrily. – Stop! How do you know my sister?

Looking at her closely, I was convinced that I was wrong – it wasn't Maria.

'She's Maria’s sister? But Maria never told me that she had another sister. I know Mariszka!» – I thought, looking at the girl.

Of course, she was Maria’s sister: the same features, the same eyes, the same eyebrows and hair… But this girl was different, some gentle, tender, in her look there was no passion, which always blazed Maria’s look. The girl I hit looked like a very young vampire.

«I wonder how old she is? And that stupid bright blue nail polish on her nails» I thought mockingly.