“Why the hell are you so slow?”

Nearly sending his fender into the old, dilapidated car in front of him, Kostya had to slow down—to eighty miles per hour.

Who even lets these geezers in their rusty junkers onto the highway? Where is he going? He’d better stay in his small damn town.

The long wait was over, the solid white line finally breaking. Annoyed, Kostya switched from fifth gear to fourth and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. His ten-year-old Golf sped up pleasantly, easily overtaking the damn bucket of bolts.

Just as expected, the driver was a shortsighted old man in very thick glasses that were fixed on his head with an elastic band. Sitting up straight, as if on a stool, and touching his red-capped head to the ceiling, he clutched at the dirty-white, fuzzy wheel with unmoving claws.

I’m sick of these rusty old things.

Kostya’s vexation subsided fast. For the three past days, he’d felt like a predator luring his prey into a trap. The excitement of the hunt overshadowed any other emotions, boiling up in the depths of his subconscious and intoxicating him like strong alcohol.

His encounter with Anya in the store seemed to have set the trigger in his head. Now the image of this brown-haired girl with sly, black eyes was haunting him.

Going over his whole life, so rich in fantasies and poor in events, Kostya strengthened in his belief that this world would never accept him, never stomach him. It had tried a few times, but it always spat him out in severe disappointment.

Bedding a woman for the first time, Kostya had realized he was not turned on at all by the standard, socially accepted sexual scenario. It seemed dull and insipid. He craved power. But, as luck would have it, all the women that took an interest in him were strong and assertive. Timid and shy, Kostya could do nothing about them taking the lead. All the romance of the first dates melted away quickly, giving way to the disgustingly familiar strict-mom-and-obedient-son role play.

At that point, Kostya would break up with the woman, unless she left him first—after he’d suddenly clutched her throat on a date, or during their first or second sexual encounter.

Popping eyes.

A choking cough.

Her rasping voice. “Are you completely nuts?!”

After the door closed behind her, he would stay still for a long while, sitting on the bed and staring blankly ahead.

Kostya was not much into a frank, open dialogue, with the world or with another person. He had no friends, nor did he really need them. In his sophomore year of college, he’d escaped his mother’s violent attacks by renting a room away from her. He never went to visit, reducing all communication to reluctantly answering the phone when she called.

The memories of that tabby cat with Sveta’s derisive eyes, and what happened next, haunted him. He missed that feeling of serene emptiness dissolving all his fear and bitterness.

First kiss. First woman. These new experiences only changed the setting of his fantasies; his main problem remained unresolved. He could no longer relieve his tension by merely killing another animal; he’d realized that clearly.

Soon, he also realized he wouldn’t do that with any of those oppressive, mom-like women either.

He needed Sveta. A young girl from his teenage years. He needed her rasping and scratching at the ground. And no one else.

Kostya realized she’d long grown up, becoming one of those dominant bitches he’d had so much of. She might even have a child, a boy of five, whom she would boss around.

One day Kostya had a sudden epiphany. There are lots of Svetas around. I’ve just been looking in the wrong places.

No woman his own age could fit this role. But a girl of thirteen…

Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier?

He started to look around for such a girl. With caution and without hurry, like everything else that he did.

Several months later, roaming about a summer camp in the woods, he ran into her...

***

An emotional, cursing, childish voice echoed through the pine forest.

Kostya peered out warily from behind a tall shrub.

Three girls of twelve, maybe thirteen, were arguing fervently. Listening for a while, Kostya learned that it was about a boy.

These little bitches never argued over me. The prickling thought struck him.

Soon after, the discussion culminated in tears. Two young “socialites,” apparently BFFs, headed off towards the camp’s tall, green fence. One of them lifted a ripped edge of the steel mesh, and both ducked beneath.

The third girl remained where she stood. Weeping loudly for a minute, she wheeled around and, blinded by tears, walked straight at Kostya.

His heart raced.

Blood pounded in his temples.

His cheeks flushed, burning-hot.

Trees and shrubs swam before his eyes, blurring into brown-green spots on a hot summer day.

Only the figure of the girl coming to him suddenly improved drastically in resolution and contrast—dazzling white and pitch black, all the other colors were gone.

She was approaching.

Her features seemed to soak up the level of detail lost by the rest of the world.

Coming at Kostya was a weeping monster covered in spots of dazzling light separated by the black cracks of her running mascara.

When she was two steps away, Kostya darted out and charged at her. Knocking her down with ease, he sat on top of her, clutching her mouth shut with one hand and grabbing her throat with another.

The tender vertebrae caved into his fingers, her muscles tensing.

Her lean body beneath him arched with sudden force, and her long nails lashed at his cheek.

Reality appeared to be much more vivid, and scarier, than his fantasies.

Kostya was unprepared for that. In his dreams, everything stayed in its place, and characters obediently waited to take the stage when summoned. And they followed their parts precisely. The parts he’d written for them.

A victim in his dream theater would only resist for show.

But not here. It was all different. And wrong.

…or maybe it was right, but still, it was too much. Too fast. A storm of details and sensations that his dream performances never had.

The pine cones and needles under his knees.

Her cheap perfume.

The scorching heat.

Sweat pouring into his eyes.

Her real, very real, resistance.

Stinging pain in his scratched cheek.

He was stunned.

Later, it would take him a long time to digest all these sensations and emotions. He would even take pleasure in playing it over while sitting in his comfortable armchair at home.

But at that moment, the girl had wriggled from beneath him, kicking his groin painfully, and, shrieking, rushed for the fence.

Her scream was instantly answered by one of her friends. “Hey, Natasha? What’s wrong?”

Kostya began to come to.

The girl was no longer here, the surrounding vegetation regaining its color and contrast.

He was on all fours next to a summer camp for teens.

With deep scratches on his face.

Three childish voices were calling for help loudly in the depths of the camp, their echo breaking on the indifferent pines. Multiple voices answered, “What’s happened?” Kostya was scared when he heard a male voice join this chorus. No, there were several male voices!

The last thing he needed was an encounter with the camp’s security.

Darting off, he slipped on the needles, hitting his knee badly on a rotting tree stump.

Limping, he ran away as fast as he could.

A half-minute race felt like an eternity.

Finally, the trees parted, revealing a highway ahead, with cars flashing up and down the road.

Kostya forced himself to slow down to a walk.

Holding his panting breath and covering his scratched cheek, he walked to his Golf parked on the shoulder, plumped down in the driver’s seat, and listened.

It was quiet.

So far, anyway.

But he had no time to waste.

Moving off smoothly, he drove to the highway. No one appeared in the rear-view mirror to chase him. Phew.

***

…Kostya had learned a lot from this encounter.

He realized, with frightening clearness, what danger he’d put himself in.

No way to turn his dreams into reality on any neutral territory. Too much depended on good luck; he was not going to run that risk again.

He had to build his own theater. It would be easier to lure a girl of thirteen there than to hunt her in the woods where anyone could show up.

Last fall, he’d purchased a half-finished summer house in the countryside, not far from the city.

The house was sold by a fussy, talkative old man. Standing on the outskirts of the town, it was separated from a dense pine forest by nothing but a dirt road.

But the best thing about this house was its vast basement. The elderly owner had apparently planned to use it as his garage, workshop, storage space, and wine cellar. Someday before he was dead, but he ran out of money before making this place suitable for storing his old bucket of bolts with a furry wheel cover.

Now this basement was to become the place where Kostya’s dreams would come true. Where no one would be able to stop him.

His visit to Stella-Natasha two days before had been an act of despair. He’d even made a resolution: if it worked out for him with the prostitute, he’d only have lunch with Anya, without going any farther. Looks like she’s unlucky.

Reaching the sign pointing to the town, Kostya drove off the highway and, rolling on the dirt waves, “sailed” towards his remote house.

Tomorrow, his exultant heart was screaming.

He wanted to floor it, but the dirt road scattered with broken bricks had different plans. Getting its suspension hit several times, the crimson Golf slowed down, lurching on the uneven ground.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, the small houses floating outside the windows seemed to chant.

For a Sunday afternoon, the town was surprisingly deserted. At second thought, not really that surprising. In late October, most people who owned summer houses here had returned to the city.

Tomorrow is a Monday. Not a soul will be around.

If only she answers when I call. Kostya tapped out a rhythm on his wheel. The new SIM card was waiting in his wallet.

Tomorrow.

Itching to call her right away, he restrained himself.

No. Tomorrow.

The past few days were just a preparation for…for what made all the other things seem dull and insignificant in comparison.

A dimple at the base of her thin neck.

Her velvet-soft, well-tanned skin.

The longer Kostya thought about it—and he’d hardly thought of anything else since last Thursday—the stronger his realization grew. Anya is my Perfect Match.

Over the three days since he’d run into her, Kostya had traveled very far down the road of his imagination. Very far. She now seemed as near as if he’d already done it with her in real life.

He was so lost in his sweet fantasies that past and future would sometimes change places in his mind. Then the realization would hit him. It hasn’t happened yet. That upset him a bit, but the next moment his heart filled with anticipation. It’s about to happen!

Sure he had prepared the perfect scenario for their…their performance. Playing it over in his mind again and again, Kostya filled it with more and more exciting details, but those came with questions.

It could turn out to be entirely different in reality than what he had imagined. Soberer. Scarier. Like those memories of the summer camp encounter that still flashed across his mind as if it had happened yesterday. He felt like he’d been running across the forest, covering his scratched cheek, only yesterday. However, in reality, it had been over a year.

I must prepare thoroughly, foreseeing all possible obstacles.

No improvisation.

On my property only.

Blinking the right turn signal, the Golf turned towards the lawn of brown fall grass. With a red flash of rear lights, the car went under the basement’s bare metal door, which had never been remastered into a proper garage.

A muffled clatter came from the trunk as the knives rolled in the toolkit. Next to them, a coiled rope jumped silently. A brand-new double air mattress slid ahead, pressing onto a roll of blue trash bags and duct tape.

Kostya had prepared thoroughly this time.

Tomorrow.