At three in the morning, my inappropriate Don.

– Dead.

– Who is dead?

– Your Levy is dead.

She sits down on the chair. Tucks the laces in the boots. Scrapes off the plaster.

– But that’s…

– Impossible? Sol, he was weak. By the way, I’m standing next to your neighbour’s door, can’t find the doorbell.

– What a fool. You will wake up everybody!

– I was standing just in case, to set up a pointless clamour and reach you no matter what. So, he died today. Therefore, open the door.

– Wait, when’s the funeral? – Sol approaches the door and turns the lock.

– Funeral. What a trifle. Who needs funerals?

– Everybody. Otherwise, how do we get to say goodbye to him?

– Sol, you hopeless romantic. You want to say goodbye to a dead man.

– Maybe he sees us.

– He’s dead. He won’t become more alive because of your tears.

– I’m not going to cry, Don.

– I know you, Sol. Your Levy is dead. It’s enough to make you weep stormily many nights running and then lie to my face with your red swollen eyes. Now would you open the door, please, or I will have to wake up your neighbours, I’m still standing at their door.

Sol opens the door.  Her charming and smiling Don is really standing on the threshold of the neighbouring apartment. He waves the phone at her and slowly steps towards her.

– Well, – he shrugs his shoulders, – but then it’s a good colour today at least.