At the last moment, he scooped up the paper scraps from the shirt. Placing the cloth on the table, he threw the photo fragments out the window with no regret. There was no shame before Paola, but the desire to release the grief that had tormented him for two years gave rise to a bitter sense of guilt.

Marco sighed heavily, lowered his head, stood there for a minute and finally slammed the window shut. He went into the living room, took the wine and sat down to watch "Christmas Holidays", the plot of which he already knew by heart.

After half an hour, Marco realised that he was not looking at the screen. He turned off the TV and trudged into the bedroom. Stripped naked, he stretched out on the bed on top of the blankets with a sigh. Fireworks were booming outside the window, illuminating the room with coloured flashes.

The sight of coloured confetti made from the photo flying out of his window rose before his eyes. Marco would soon be thirty-nine, many of his classmates were already sending their children to school, and he had just thrown his past affair out of the window.

Marco rolled over on his side. "I wonder what that redhead is doing now? Probably dancing somewhere on the street, in a crowd of other idle revellers" he thought, and immediately regretted it. The image of soft lips picking up red, juicy flesh from a creamy bed instantly burst into his consciousness. Heck! He could describe in details where he would like to see those lips.

He tried to force the image away, but it was instantly replaced by another one: a girl with her eyes closed sat at the piano, slowly swaying to the music, her head tilted back in pleasure. Her open throat was white against red curls and a slight smile played on her full lips. For some reason, in his fantasy, the girl was barefoot. He wondered what else she could do so slowly and delicately?

Marco cursed out loud, slammed his fist unnecessarily hard into the pillow, and tried to lie down on his stomach. After all these thoughts, lying on his stomach was uncomfortable. Marco cursed his stubborn body, which did not want to eat starvation rations, and declared it in every possible way.

Marco realised that he would not be able to sleep. He got up, grumbled through his teeth, and – naked – went back into the living room. He picked up a glass, drained it in one gulp, and poured himself more wine. But it only made things worse. His brain, clouded by alcohol, refused to obey and gave him a series of images of a red-haired temptress one by one.

After two hours of fruitless attempts to distract himself with TV, wine, music, or anything else, Marco gave up and went to take a shower. Standing in front of the transparent wall, he wondered if he could act like a true stoic and stand under cold water. His second option was to stop acting like a moral idiot and get into a warm shower and solve the problem as a real warrior. In other words, as some poor guy who was quite an adult but didn't have access to women in the flesh. Ignoring his ego, Marco turned on the hot water.

The image of the hated witch didn't leave his mind, and Marco stayed in the shower for much longer than planned. He wasn't able to get to bed until four in the morning, drunk and exhausted.

He dreamed of a red-haired witch. Naked, she lay on a white rumpled sheet, shamelessly spreading her legs, beckoning to him and smiling invitingly. The reflections of the flames danced on her white skin, her hands reached out to him, stroking his flushed face and pulling him closer.