They invited me to the memorial. Forty days had passed. The table was set well enough: cold appetizers, pickles, drinks. The table was set well enough: cold appetizers, pickles, drinks. Then came warm rolls with butter, mashed potatoes, chicken, beef, fish. I’m not supposed to eat any of it, but still—it matters that they did things properly.

The only problem was the waiter. I’d asked for a rare steak—warm, almost raw—and he brought it out cooked to death. Like chewing on a shoe.

I felt the urge rise. But no. Not here.

We were honoring a good man. Frank Donovan —quiet, decent, always willing to help. A true professional. The implants he worked on—beautiful work. A life well spent. May he rest in peace. And besides, there were relatives, acquaintances all around. They wouldn’t understand. Still, the irritation lingered.

I glanced around. A few young women sat nearby, dressed in black. Faces still untouched by time, bodies young, full—healthy, flushed.

They’d hired a good priest too. A low, steady voice. Tall enough, solid beard, almost iconic. Not overweight. And his expression—just the right amount of sorrow.

I can’t stand priests who bleat in thin, reedy voices. This one held the room. I listened closely. He spoke about the moon and the sun, tied it gently to Scripture, read from the Psalms. Calm, convincing.

But the man sitting across from me irritated me immediately. Showing off. Everyone else had stopped eating out of respect for the service, but he kept interrupting… pulling the attention back to himself.

The moon, he said, was hollow. Artificial. A classic know-it-all. The kind of person nobody would listen to under normal circumstances. He latched on and wouldn’t let go. The priest was paid—he was doing his job. Otherwise, what were rituals even for?

Enough already!

Finally, he stood up—probably heading to the restroom or out for a smoke. I stood as well.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I don’t think we’ve met before.” I smiled, introduced myself, shook his hand. “I was really interested in what you were saying about the moon and the sun. I’ve never heard anything like that. I’d love to hear more—there were so many interruptions in there. It’s always a pleasure to talk to someone interesting.”

He lit up, laughing loudly.

I checked my pocket. Gloves. Wipes. All there.

“Why don’t we step outside?” I said. “It’s quieter. We can smoke, and I’ll hear you properly.”

Late autumn. Cool air. Wind pushing dry leaves across the pavement. No one around.

I offered him a cigarette. He took a deep drag and leaned his head back. His throat open.

From below, I struck his jaw with the heel of my hand. Clean. He dropped instantly.

I pulled on the gloves. His head had fallen to the side—his neck exposed perfectly. I leaned in, opened my mouth wider, sealed over the artery so nothing would splash. Then I drank.

At first—nothing. Just swallowing. Then I noticed it: blood type A. Likely diabetic. I took about two liters. Stopped. Wiped my mouth. Looked around.

Time to go back.

I returned to my seat and waved the waiter over.

“Could you replace my steak?” I said quietly. “Just sear it—rare inside. Please make sure.”
I slipped a bill between my fingers and let it show.
“I’d appreciate the care.”