A group of boys in tight jeans came toward us, walking down the narrow passageway. One held a small, heavily made-up girl around the waist, while another, with a sharp face and gelled-back hair, looked you up and down with curious eyes. You noticed him, and your face seemed to harden; you looked away. We reached the top of the bridge and waited at the traffic lights. To our right lay the city, the neon lights of the tall buildings glistening, advertising clubs and restaurants, to our left the Wisła and the dark shore of Praga. I thought I could sense your restlessness. You looked at me from the side.

“What is it?” I said.

You looked ahead, at the red light. “I think it’s better if I spend tonight by myself.” You sounded careful, circumscribed. “Just tonight.”

“Why?”

“I need some time alone.”

I looked into your eyes, trying to discern what this meant. Your look was steady.

“I’m just tired,” you said. “I need to rest. All right? I’ll see you soon.”

“Is it because of Hania?”

You shook your head, not looking at me. “Don’t overthink it.”

The light turned green, and a tram appeared. We said good night, our hands in our pockets, and then you crossed over without turning back.

Three days passed and no message came. Rather than drive myself crazy, I caught a rattling tram to the other side of the river. You opened the door shirtless, holding a razor in your hand. You seemed surprised to see me but not displeased. You invited me in. There was a water bowl on your desk and a little mirror propped against a pile of books.

“I’m just getting ready to go out,” you said, sitting down and running a hand over your stubble. “A drink. My boss invited us to his place.” You tried to sound casual and threw me a glance as if to test my reaction. I was calm. You took up the razor and looked at yourself again. “Can we see each other tomorrow? At the pool?”

I nodded, relieved to have some certainty. “Sure. Have fun tonight.” I managed to say this without sounding sarcastic. You stood and kissed me hard on the mouth, razor still in hand.

I went to a student café near campus and prepared for my interview with the board that would take place if I passed into the next round. I’d come to like my topic on Baldwin’s analysis of racism in America. Professor Mielewicz had praised it too, saying I’d be the first in the country to examine it. It made me think that throughout my life, up to this point, everything I’d done had felt either irrelevant or replaceable. Here, for the first time, was something wholly mine, something that needed me in order to exist. I was expecting news from the professor any day now. I tried to remain hopeful.