The boss introduced her and shot out.

‘What was your name again?’ Milko pumped her, as if he hadn’t heard.

‘Bojidara!’ the girl warbled and smiled. She did not lower shyly her head.

A real girl, Milko said to himself, turning to the computer, once you have seen her, you can’t think of anything but sex ... It seemed the Beauty itself had made its way into these jeans; her breasts stretched tight a white blouse with a defiant inscription: Yes! Every day, exactly at ten, Bojidara would come in; say hello and noiselessly step among the desks with her white sneakers, slip into her seat and the telephone Marathon would begin. The advertising agency started buzzing. Quiet droning came from the powerful computers; the scanner now and then gave a crack like a stupid husband dining with his lover. There were, though rare, moments of silence and then in the office would come the voice of Milko, changed like a woman’s:

”And h-e-e-e?’

Everyone remained silent; they knew what was going to follow. Milko answered himself:

‘Moro-o-o-o-n!’

They couldn’t help laughing; the brief performance of Milko was a whole-length one-act comedy of two women that tell each other about their last adventures in few but completely exhaustive words. The phone woke up again and screamed; the flying door let the next new client in and the ball kept rolling in full speed.

At noon, Bojidara would run to the café across the street for her usual sandwich and a small boza. She would sit by the window and watch people passing. She liked the work in the advertising agency; she already plotted how she was going to stay after the beginning of the semester. She couldn’t do without the money she got here. She wanted to buy so many things . . .

‘And he-e-e?’ Milko asked, sitting in front of her, his usual glass of vodka in his hand.

‘Moro-o-o-n!’ she answered. It sounded like a password and every day at lunch he followed her obediently like a dog in the café. Milko kept silence and looked at her. So pretty that she made him tremble with the desire erupting in him like a Vulcan. He managed to hold back his excitement; he hid it under a veneer of playful manner that was typical for him.

Bojidara understood him.

In the office, she was constantly aware of his look creeping on her face, down her breasts, her hips. Sometimes she had the feeling his desire was going to burn her, there were even moments when she was ready to start extinguishing the flames enveloping her white blouse with the defiant inscription: Yes. For the first time Bojidara faced the horror of being so passionately wanted while she herself was absolutely, completely indifferent. She felt ashamed and guilty about a crime she had not committed. Somehow, all of it was so confused and so incomprehensible. . . She did not want to hurt anyone!

She revealed to her friend, using a lot of words, sighs and exclamations, the great storm raging in her soul but her friend only smiled: ‘How stupid of you! The most important thing for a woman is to have the privilege to be able to say no, especially a beautiful woman like you!’ And she cast an envious glance at her hips and breasts.

‘Still I can understand how he is suffering . . . Bojidara signed.

‘Childish tricks! . . . ‘her friend snorted, ‘He suffer! Let him suffer, then!

That’s none of your concern!. . . .’

‘You maybe right, you maybe . . . Bojidara would shake her heard uncertainly and on the next day the moment she started to feel Milko’s look creeping on her body she gave a shudder, grew red, and she felt like running away and never getting back to the office.

One Friday, Milko sat by her in the café, picked up his courage and threw out his offer with insincere carelessness.

‘Why not have a drink tonight?’

She knew exactly what was to follow. Instead later, it was better to happen that very moment. She felt sorry for him; she even liked him, but to be with him – never! An old man, when she dreamed of a prince . . .

‘I have a date, I’m sorry!’ she apologized.

‘With your boyfriend?’ Milko smiled bitterly when he felt the firm rejection and sipped at his vodka.

‘With Desy’ Bojidara answered and looked at him.

‘Desy?’ asked Milko surprised.

‘Your daughter. We are friends . . .’Bojidara answered, threw expertly the unfinished sandwich in the bin and left.

Milko followed her with his eyes – why, of course, she was his daughter Desy’s age! What a fool I am!

The Beauty, poured out in the jeans, stretched tight the white blouse with the defiant inscription Yes! was already crossing the street with her white sneakers. When Milko smothered down his anger and pain with a few more glasses of vodka he in the end entered the advertising agency. He gave Bojidara a wink and said, on his way to his seat:

‘And I-I-I?’

‘Moro-o-o-n!’ she said cheerfully and giggled. The others followed.