On the other side of the river the sun was setting on the cathedral’s broken towers. Shops began to close, and men and women in black shoes hurried out of buildings and started queuing for buses. I wasn’t going home. I stood near the old market hall, seeing the women leave with their net bags filled with vegetables and loaves of bread, and I walked in, saw the vendors pack up their goods. Upstairs I wandered along the iron walkways and past the little shops, just underneath the massive swooped roof with its lamps and iron elevators. In one shop an old man stood behind the counter, his thin white hair combed neatly across his scalp. There was only one light bulb in the place, hanging from the ceiling not far from his face, and something made me enter. Bottles without labels stood on shelves behind him. “One liter,” I said. He looked me over with vague curiosity and grabbed a bottle from behind him. I paid him with my pocket money.

The bottle was hidden in my coat as I walked toward Staromiejski Park, the one near the river. It was the park where everyone knew the “inverts” went. I found a bench right outside it and watched the mothers and couples clear out as night fell, taking sips from the bottle that burned my mouth and throat, burned right through the inside of me. Pain followed by relief.

When I felt sufficiently powerful and clouded, I entered the dark mouth of the park. It seemed empty at first. Still, I started to tremble with fear and possibility.

There was a bench facing away from the river, lit by the faint moon. I sat down and felt my body shaking and my knees jumping all by themselves. I took some more sips and looked around, my eyes adjusting to the dark. A figure appeared on the path. He approached slowly and sat beside me. I was scared to look into his face. He asked me how old I was, his voice gentle and dry.

“Eighteen,” I lied, and sensed him nod.

“You’re a good-looking boy. What are you doing out here at night?” I knew I was still trembling. He put his hand on my knee, calming my body. “You’re nervous, no?” he said.

I nodded, reassured by the contact, finally daring to look at him. It struck me straight away how old he was—he could have been my father—and how worn his face, as if life had already claimed the best parts of him, leaving only a husk. And yet, his hand on me felt good. He took out a flask from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to me. I took a sip, sensing his smell on the bottle top, and, without wanting to, imagined him undressed above me. The power of that possibility intoxicated me along with the spirit burning my throat.