THE COLLECTOR

1

Andrew Brown rolled his eyes, trying to recall Emily's favorite coffee. Espresso? Raspberry latte? It's hard to keep all this information in mind throughout the day, waiting for a moment to jot it down in his journal.

"Latte," he finally wrote in neat, straight handwriting under the "Preferences" section. The tip of the pen moved down and to the right, towards a large marked block of plans and proposals.

"Bring her a cup of coffee during lunch break. Next month."

By May, Emily would have forgotten her words, and, of course, be surprised by Andrew's kindness. Most likely, she would be flattered. Emily wasn't one of those secretive people who become hostile and suspicious when someone shows an impressive knowledge of their tastes. Andrew looked up at the "Character" section:

"Emily enjoys attention. Hysteroid personality type; vulnerable to indifference alternating with interest. Likes courtesy, plays the game 'Ladies and Gentlemen'." And so on. These lines were enough to evoke a general impression of the person.

After a long day at work, Andrew felt as if he had been run over by a roller coaster. Juggling studies and work turned out to be more challenging than he had imagined, and now, shy doubts began to creep into his soul.

"No doubts," Andrew reminded himself. "These are my prospects. Give in to laziness once, and in a couple of years, you'll find yourself an unknown graduate with no chance of a good job, a puppy on the doorstep of a dingy office, fit only for typing contract data into Word under dictation."

Andrew shifted his gaze to the top right corner of the dossier. Pluses and expectations:

"Socialization in the workplace. Business connections."

Not bad, but not deserving of anything more than a cup of coffee and occasional small favors. Nevertheless, it's still manageable, and perhaps even a rare stroke of luck. Emily's attraction to emotional swings fits perfectly with Andrew's desire to spend as little time as possible on her. Controlling this acquaintance would be easy.

2

Robert has come to the Department of Finance, Credit, and Accounting in January of this year. Quiet, unnoticed, and a bit strange, he initially only caused Andrew superficial irritation and boredom. Robert's superpower of getting into awkward social situations and handling them with a slightly bewildered, foolishly stubborn expression was baffling in the worst sense of the word.

Robert Appleton's dossier had barely advanced a couple of sentences over the past few months, but it had to be acknowledged: Robert was a master of revanche. This week, Andrew found himself meeting with Appleton almost every day, and it wasn't due to random clashes or the need to attend the same lectures and seminars. It was because Andrew didn't mind. He changed his habits and dismissed several hours promised to additional "Investment" classes. One of the most useful disciplines of the course had been pushed aside for conversations with Robert Appleton, and Andrew reluctantly admitted that it would happen again.

It was difficult to find a subject that Robert didn't know about, although Andrew managed to come up with a short list. Comically, it included almost half of the semester's subjects. Even more amusing, everyday things like "how to cook dumplings" or "how to greet professors" made the list. Robert either shouted an exaggerated "hello" from the other end of the corridor or waited until the person being greeted approached within arm's reach. Then he would, in surprise, do the same: shout a mandatory greeting and sometimes mechanically nod several times, smiling broadly.

Thus, it was particularly astonishing that by the end of the week, Robert Appleton's dossier was bursting with lines under the "Strengths and Expectations" column. Towards the bottom of the section, Andrew had to start squeezing in words, which annoyed him - the sheet lost its neatness and looked like a child's scribble pad.

"He's good at mathematics. Can talk about art (!), but does it rudely. Not talkative. Doesn't recognize non-verbal cues (no need to watch facial expressions and gestures). Not intrusive."

A few more lines, and as a final touch, written in small, shaky letters at the end: "Breeds snails." And a hesitant, trembling smiling emoticon. Andrew's hands trembled as he filled the dossier with unnecessary scribbles - he felt like a person setting a trap for the law, staining a pristine shirt with red paint for the sake of amusement. And yet, he wanted the emoticon to be there. Is credibility more important than accuracy? It's hard to say.

The snails, without a doubt, were an important detail. Three days ago, Appleton showed up at the pricing lecture with a plastic container in his backpack's side pocket. The container's lid had holes for air circulation. Inside, there was soil, a pile of green leaves, a few straws, and a piece of refined sugar.

"These are my snails," Robert proudly announced. "This one with the large shell is Jerry. Sometimes he starts attacking other snails, and I have to isolate him. And the one with the reddish shell is Tracy, the main beauty of the aquarium."

"Snails don't have gender," Andrew said. "They're hermaphrodites."

Robert shrugged.

"I know."

He continued the unsolicited tour until they were kicked out of the lecture by the instructor. It was the first time someone had been angry with Andrew Brown, and he marked April 15th in the dossier of the relevant person as the day of failure.

After that, when he turned off the lights and lay in bed, Andrew was surprised to find himself unable to fall asleep due to a subcutaneous anxiety of uncertain origin. He encountered a faceless danger, a trap so elusive that recognizing its form and devising a defense plan became impossible.

"How can I use this situation? Robert and his snails? Why do I need him, why didn't I interrupt him, why did I let it escalate to the point where Mr. Palmer kicked me out?" Andrew feverishly thought, rolling from side to side as if the sheets were red-hot. Unbearably hot and uncomfortable, rigidly. He would gladly find himself in a dark forest, by the stormy sea, under a fiery rain of apocalypse - anywhere but in his own bed. And, in Andrew's deep conviction, anyone in his place would have stumbled, everyone would have been horrified. Events unfolded irrationally, seemingly without his involvement. A whistling, ugly wound yawned in place of the familiar order of life, a dark void. Andrew felt a fresh breeze from another world coming from the wound, and the ridiculous alien world clung to his face like a disgusting, persistent insect. A suffocating panic gripped Andrew's throat. That night, he never fell asleep.

3

Unbeknownst to Andrew, he was burning bridges. In the morning, he called Appleton and suggested skipping their classes to visit the zoo instead of enduring the pompous droning. Robert, of course, agreed - it was hard to imagine a simple adventure he would refuse to participate in.

Throughout the time spent among the cages and the noisy, foul-smelling animals, Andrew was not himself. It seemed to him that the monstrous wound he first saw at night had opened its jaws and wanted to engulf him. Robert walked beside him, narrating about the animals, occasionally adding peculiar comments. In the primate enclosure, he began drawing parallels between the monkey antics and human behavior, which amused and irritated Andrew at the same time. Andrew restrainedly smiled and felt ashamed for it. Foolishness.

In the reptile room, Robert leaned his forehead against the aquarium with a green tree snake inside and attempted Parseltongue. The snake refused to engage in conversation. Perhaps it wasn't having a good day, or maybe Appleton used an unfamiliar dialect or spoke too fast. Either way, something didn't work out, but the stubborn classmate didn't give up. He hissed and whistled like a boiling teapot, trying to produce the most snake-like sounds from human vocal cords.

Andrew found a lone chair and gratefully sank onto its hard plastic seat. The back of his head touched the stone that covered the walls of the room with snakes, and Andrew thought the stone shifted. Ripples ran across the surface of the wall, like ripples on the calm water of a lake that spotted a future drowning victim on its shore. Mermaids reached out their hands to the sun and the sky, searching for a human. Andrew stood up from the chair, approached Robert, tugged at his sleeve, and cheerfully said:

"We haven't seen the lizards yet."

Robert furrowed his brow and nodded.

4

In the evening, after taking a shower and preparing for the next day, Andrew sat down at the table and rested his forehead in his hands, staring at the wall. The clocks ticked deafeningly. He remembered that he needed to update the information in Robert's file. For a few seconds, he felt an inexplicable heaviness in his soul, as if a couple of sparse lines were crossing out something elusive, evasive, and almost intangible. This nimble non-existent creature couldn't be captured and fixed, yet despite its non-existence, it was undoubtedly present in the same room with Andrew.

The silence thickened, and the ticking of the clocks pierced through it, like bullets piercing the body of a person standing face to white tiles in an execution chamber.

"Likes to fool around (?)" Andrew wrote in the section about Robert's character and behavior. "Doesn't care about reputation at the university." And in the column for potential pressure points, he strained his memory and added:

"Seriousness. Emphasizes formal communication."

Having completed his daily duty, Andrew got up from the table, lay down on the bed, tucked the blanket from the inside, and pulled its upper edge up to his eyes. Today he fell asleep quickly, and his sleep was sound.

5

Friday, as usual dedicated to the internship in the finance department of a well-known outsourcing company, started off badly. By noon, Andrew was so exhausted that he could hardly hope for a trouble-free end to the workday. His shirt was terribly wrinkled, the gelled hairstyle was messed up, but only an unwavering smile on his face reassured everyone: everything was fine. "I am a professional, yes, yes, what can I do for you? Always ready to listen!" Miss Parcman, should I grab for you a can of Red Bull in the cafeteria? As you wish.

The evening went surprisingly smoothly. Andrew Brown left the office feeling like a general who had lost his army but won the battle. It was time to leave the battlefield, lay down the weapons, and have a cup of tea. He suddenly realized that the recent panic was a sign of chaos building up inside him, accumulating and waiting to burst out into his life. Matters he used to handle successfully now slipped through his fingers, his self-assurance vanished, and the world began to crumble brick by brick. The collapse of meaning was knocking on his door, laughing. That's where the anxiety came from.

Andrew closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids. His own hands momentarily seemed unfamiliar and rigid, as if trying to hurt or even squeeze his eyeballs.

"Boredom," thought Andrew. "Boredom and nausea. The thing is, I'm just tired, that's all. I've managed it, and I really deserve some rest. I'll have dinner, get some sleep, and tomorrow it will be funny to remember how seriously I've been digging into myself."

He walked home, not noticing that he was still mechanically smiling.

Suddenly, his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket.

Robert Appleton (university): "Could you lend me your market paper lectures for the weekend? I missed the last ones due to illness, on Monday, and I'm completely lost without the theory. When can I pick them up?"

Andrew smiled and replied, "You can come over this evening." Below, he wrote his address and the time when he'd be home. Robert seemed distant, incomprehensible, unnecessary, but still somehow reassuring. Talking to someone else would be a good distraction. Yes, it's exhausting, and it's usually tough and monotonous. If Andrew could, he would simplify his social interactions to just a few basic communications and exchanges of services, but society worked differently. Besides, he sometimes enjoyed formalities and rituals. They were a convenient way to hide the lack of purpose, and with their help, it was easy to make connections and get whatever you wanted – from a one-night stand to a coveted position in some company.

Robert wasn't inclined towards formalities, but it only meant that his personal rituals differed from the norm, not that they didn't exist at all.

And it wouldn't hurt him to boil some water for tea himself – Andrew thought absentmindedly. If he wanted, he could boil water himself; at least, his hospitality wouldn't suffer. If Robert didn't think badly of him, it made no difference.

It had been a good thirty minutes since Andrew turned the key in his apartment's lock before the short, uncertain doorbell rang. He opened the door, and there stood Robert, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"Am I really not bothering you?" he said with a hint of tension.

"No, come in. The coat rack is on the right. I'll be back in a couple of minutes, but for now, go to the kitchen," Andrew quickly disappeared into the bathroom doorway, closed the door, and turned on the water. Cold splashes demanded his attention, slapping him to wake up. It became easier to keep his eyes open. He could, of course, refuse Robert and go to sleep, but Andrew knew he wouldn't be able to sleep.

When he stepped out of the bathroom and headed for the kitchen, there was no sign of his guest. "So, he's in the living room," Andrew thought with an inexplicable worry. He hurriedly entered through another door.

Robert was sitting on the same worn leather armchair, with the black, cracked leather armrests.

"Do you walk around the house in your shoes?" he mumbled. "Well, it's comfortable."

"What...?" Andrew, barely comprehending, looked down. Damn it. It seemed he had forgotten to take off his office shoes when he entered the apartment. The last time this happened was when he was still in school and studying hard for final exams. Robert also remained in his shoes – he must have thought it was the house rules.

Well, it probably wouldn't make a big difference. Tomorrow he'd order a cleaning service, and for now...

"Would you like some tea?" he began, forgetting about his recent reflections and decision not to offer tea.

"Shall I go home then?" Robert made a simultaneous move.

"Okay," Andrew nodded quickly and somewhat mechanically. Why should he be disappointed? Because someone declined to spend the evening with him? That's nonsense. It seemed that only children needed to be entertained, but he hadn't been a child for a long time.

"Thanks again," Robert smiled gently, "I won't even notice how I become a good student. Goodbye."

He put on a light spring jacket too hastily. Stepped over the threshold. Andrew closed the door behind the guest and finally got rid of his shoes, changing them to comfortable slippers. The air in the apartment thickened so much that it became impossible to breathe. Andrew returned to the room, opened the window, and then, as usual, sat down at the desk to immerse himself in filling out the dossier. The journal, as always, lay on the edge of the table, next to a black pen with two golden letters - the abbreviation of the company where Andrew was doing an internship.

Nonchalantly, he opened the journal and began to flip through the dossier. First, he needed to work on the pages dedicated to Emily and a couple of other colleagues with good potential. If they were lucky and caught the tail of the bird of luck, they would have a chance to be considered for promotion in a year. Such things always needed to be taken into account in advance. Then, you won't be caught off guard and will also catch the happy wave, the one that is already destined for you.

"Caitlin Frisby. Prefers to talk seriously. Cannot stand lies and flattery, proud of her straightforwardness. Note: it wouldn't hurt to show some rudeness a few times, and then apologize."

People like Caitlin often do that. When you don't understand the boundary between honesty and tactlessness, it's easy to fall into the trap of 'sorry, I didn't know you would take it that way.' Well, sure, of course. If Andrew found a way to always understand the context, why forgive others for their foolishness and social awkwardness? And anyway, why forgive anyone for anything?

Playing on weaknesses is easier than it might seem at first glance. Andrew, lost in thought and staring at the ceiling, mechanically counted five pages to add a couple of sentences to Robert's file. Something like: "In an unclear situation, imitates others," and...

Was there something about a lack of experience in friendly gatherings? Why did he feel so awkward? Robert seemed much more relaxed at the zoo than here, sitting in the big boss's chair a couple of hours ago.

Andrew lowered his eyes to put his observations into words and felt a chill. The journal was empty. Well, not entirely empty. Ragged scraps of pages stuck out from the binding. The pages dedicated to Robert were missing. His finger mechanically traced the binding back and forth, hoping that the pages would magically return, and the awkward situation of their disappearance would resolve itself. Nothing happened.

Andrew slapped himself on the forehead and leaned back in his chair. He felt nauseated. He was scared, but the fear quickly turned into irritation.

"And what the hell did he meddle in someone else's business for?" he whispered angrily.

The room was silent.

Perhaps Robert himself didn't understand why he was killing what was born with such difficulty, struggling to find its way to air and light. Most likely, he simply couldn't grasp the intricacies, as he had done before. People don't change. Play on their weaknesses as much as you want, but as soon as you let someone too close, you'll find yourself trapped.

"Experience is the best teacher," Andrew told himself firmly. "Experience teaches from mistakes. Anyway, nothing would have worked out. There's no benefit in this acquaintance. Small talk? Unlikely."

People are never interesting. Everything worth attention in them ends too quickly. Before you can blink, you have nothing to say to each other, and you start having tedious conversations about the weather, food, and how each one spent their time. What's the point? All these stories have already been told. You can find them anywhere: in books, forums, newspapers, and on advertisements in the subway. They literally float in the air when you go to work or university. Why is all this needed?

Why is any of this needed at all? Andrew put his head down, pressing his forehead against the dossier that once surrounded Robert's file. In this situation, it would be logical to cry, he thought, but it's better not to. Ink might run. And there's no point in tears if no one sees them.

So he simply lifted his head away from the journal, took his mobile phone, and calmly, as he had done dozens of times before, deleted Robert's number from the contact list. This person can ask any questions, get angry, seek friendship, do whatever he wants. All his efforts are now irrelevant. They have never meant anything to each other and will always mean nothing to each other.

Friend - that's a convenient word for denoting the highest form of mutual usefulness. There can be no friendship here.

Andrew went to the bathroom and washed his face again. After that, completely calm, he duplicated the deleted dossier on the last page. Let it all be over, but it shouldn't be forgotten. One shouldn't let the failure reflect on the future. And he absolutely must pick up the lecture notes on Monday before classes. The year is not over yet; the notes will be useful.

Having finished his tasks, Andrew took a shower, had dinner, and went to bed. Tomorrow will be a new day - a particularly difficult seminar, earning respect at work, new difficulties, and new successes. It's necessary to get a good night's sleep.