He sighs and bends down for the book. It has a white cover, with the title also in white for the sake of discretion. You can only read the letters with your fingers. He turns back to the mirror, unable to believe he is actually doing this. He should be working, painting the walls, replastering the whole house, changing the spark plug, doing one of the many things that need doing in the garden. But we sacrifice our time to the gods, if we can’t sacrifice something more. He shakes his head and tries again.

Later he sits behind the garage, drinking beer and watching the neighboring lot, long abandoned. That overgrown area has become a symbol of unfulfilled dreams, just like the entire suburb. The weeds are nearly a man’s height. There is some ragweed swaying as well, which makes Ágika sneeze constantly. It should be cut down, but Csabi figures it’s not his land, so it’s not his problem. If he grabbed his scythe and went over to mow, he would wind up taking on all the neighboring lot’s problems when he already had enough to deal with at his own place.

But in truth, this is not the real reason he lets the weeds grow. Even now, while he sips his beer, he feels someone watching him. Sometimes at night from the window it sounds like something is rustling among the weeds. Csabi is scared: what would he find if he mowed the weeds? That’s why he never dares to look out the window at night. Maybe then he would see it, whatever is watching, would see it clearly in the moonlight. What you see sees you too. It might even kill him. What would Ágika do then?

What would he do without Ágika? He sometimes wonders how much easier his life would be had he not met Ágika. Had he not for some reason clicked on her profile on that dating site. It wasn’t love at first sight. On the first date they didn’t click. They kept on seeing each other anyway, and it got better and better. On the fifth date Csabi took Ágika home, and since that night they had been inseparable. That first night, as they lay in bed, Ágika told Csabi that she was a believer. Csabi was raised as a Greek Catholic, but his family wasn’t particularly religious, and he himself very rarely dealt with issues that couldn’t be tackled with one’s two hands. One time he said a mental prayer to some elusive God after his father’s stroke. His father died the next day, without ever waking from his coma. God didn’t listen to his prayer then, but that was all right, since Csabi didn’t believe in his existence anyway. If he did exist, he surely wouldn’t be fond of occasional believers, just as nobody likes casual smokers who bum cigarettes off them at parties.