The man was christened Bogart, which gave him almost as serious complexes as Woody Allen got from a certain guy called Humphrey Bogart.

To be honest, he found other similarities with the American genius as well, therefore he spared neither the money nor the time to have himself cured by a professional, so by the end of the therapy he could consider himself as one analysed down to the bones.

Obviously, the shrink could not help his appearance, therefore he improved Bogart's relation to his outsides. Bogart, bound to be sceptic as he was, found out that he had not been tantalised by his own attitude on the first hand, but rather by the damning fact of how women treated him, since women, those amazing creatures seemed not to take him seriously… All in all, he has embraced the studies and made peace with a large part of his phobias.

He, therefore, has accepted his neutral hairstyle, which left him no other opportunities than to cut it short and wear it as Mother Nature had welded it to his head. A pair of blue eyes were set deep within under his teddy-bear blond arching eyebrows, along with an almost Roman nose curve, which was slightly broken at the end, but that was a small issue, provided that he did not put is to a profile show. He was neither satisfied with the line of his lips, however, his teeth were healthy and bright, which, by the way, he did not make much use of, since he preferred grimacing to smiling. All of these features were located on a narrow and long face. His height was also a question of mortal coil, so he hunched a little to compensate for it. He was thin and not the man one would call an athlete, which he also tried to work out, but he soon found out that the chamber of tortures with all the weights and bullies was non of his turf.

Finally he did as he had been told by the shrink and discovered the irony in him, digging up the humour that was laying not-so-deep within. In turn, he almost made peace with the world, save for those issues that were attributable to the sad nature of the world rather than to his own appearance.

The idyll only lasted until a new colleague joined the firm. Most likely Darlene did never need to visit the sofa of any psychiatrist, since she was not only beautiful, but also at ease with herself. Even on her rookie day she has been talking to colleagues as if she knew them for ages, she memorised their names in an instant, and what is more, she seemed to pinpoint and voice their most obvious irregularities without any hesitation.

Bogart has been gazing at the girl from a distance for a good time. He intended to have a closer look as well, but any time he started towards her diabolic events occurred. Shattered vases, tap-dancing phones and toppled colleagues lined his path, as if the girl had an invisible line of defence that may only be penetrated by smart and assured guys without suffering any damage - and without the office interior being blown away as well.

Therefore Bogart changed his technique and held his distance from Darlene not only in actual metre terms, but also by keeping a distinctive soul canyon. In time he gave up on her, an easy sacrifice on his part as he judged his chances in getting entangled in anything romantic equalling a big zero. On the other hand Darlene has just recognised the man, probably in the very moment of his abandoning mood. She recognised him and by a closer look she found that the shy, apparently impulsive guy is worthy of her interest.

*

Darlene was an obsessed socialiser, she had in interest and an opinion in any given topic. The Amazonian jungles could not have been burnt without her approval (being burnt anyway), and it was close to impossible to launch monstrous atomic power plants or use chemical weapons without her being asked first. And she loved flower parades as well…

So one day she dropped by the desk of the astonished Bogart and curtly asked him an 'Are you free this evening? Provided that you like flowers…' question.

In less than ten minutes his boss excused Bogart from the rest of the day, as a result of his dying aunt… Bogart than sped home and tore his wardrobe door wide open with the tantalising goal ahead to be charming for the evening. He has been sorting through an army of clothing, trying on a pair of trousers three times just to finally choose a really sporty piece, made of grey linen and equipped with a pair of elephant-ear pockets at thigh-level to pronounce its sportiness. He also deliberated on a denim shirt to pretend being cool, augmented with a shoulder holster for the sole purpose of keeping his money within, which he intended to use on inviting the lady of his heart for dinner. He hid his holster with a never-ironed, factory-wrinkled linen jacket, hooked up his camera around his neck and looked down on his sad and naked feet, finally opting for a pair of running shoes of the Puma kind, having none better. He was almost ready, save for the three hours left until the date… To kill time he did indeed visit his dying aunt in the hospital.

The old lady was scheduled for dying every year for almost two decades by then, therefore her family took the news of her renewed agony with a bit of scepticism. This time, a little over ninety, she looked to be at the peak of her strength, if a little parched at it. She was lying in her bed, cheerful, surrounded by the magnificent bouquets sent by the caring family members, playing poker with the hospital gardener. The guy was on the brink of losing his shirt… Bogart did not linger long, he set out to his date.

On his way he made up his mind on what he would speak about with Darlene. He cooked up a couple of dozen punchlines, which he duly recorded in the middle of a park. After declaring himself rendezvous-ready he strolled to his date.

At the sight of Darlene all of his punchlines slipped out of his head, with his blood pressure bottoming out alike. He stopped abruptly, staring at the girl and blessing his luck that Darlene did not notice him yet. Honey-coloured hair in unkempt waves, huge dark eyes with an abyss to it, the ones that seem to swallow up the unfortunate, rich, sensual lips and curves to be cupped - it took some minutes for Bogart to pull himself together.

Darlene had obviously seen him by the time he reached the other end of the square with his incredibly self-assured, springlike steps. To see and not to show it is a trick known to any woman with a hint of femininity in her. By the time Bogart got close she pulled herself ramrod straight, adopting a queen's majesty and wet her lips for shine. She began to pace for she knew her pace was graceful. Bogart regained the springs in his steps by then again.

They greeted each other and clarified the issues about the weather being bright and the carnival flowers being spectacular. Since the crowd was packed Bogart offered his arm to the girl to save her from being swept away. They stood there in the crowd, watching the carnival, with all the cars dressed in petals rolling by, with the music on and with the hamburger standsmen blaring.

Pickpockets were out to hunt as well. Bogart was not really impressed by the pictures of the carnival, so he stole some glances of the girl and glared openly at the pickpockets in action. Since he did not utter a sound the guys thought that he was scared (probably being right down to an art), so they operated more and more unscrupulous, locking eyes with Bogart. They slowly converged on him.

Then Bogart ripped his jacket open with a spectacular move and flashed his shoulder holster.

Pickpockets picked their feet in a hurry to disperse. They were gone from the spot in an instant. The girl, who had given no sign of attention yet, smiled and beamed at the man. 'Wow', she sighed.

Bogart was dumbfounded. After some thirty seconds of using extensive brainpower he solved the riddle: he had recently impressed Darlene! He immediately acquired the stance of the protector by moving closer to the girl and flexing his muscle to look as though he was ready to take on the devil himself. Meanwhile he was gulping on the discreet sandalwood scent emanating from Darlene's skin.

When the cars were gone and only dead petals and trash littered the middle of the square the two set out for a stroll. Bogart was taking snapshots of the guy munching on a hot dog, patched with the mixed streams of mustard and ketchup on his chin, the scores of pigeons circling above the square in a seemingly haphazard manner, the charmed kids dragging gorgeous balloons and the lovers kissing and caring for little else.

Meanwhile the sun began to set. The pickpockets ready to avenge were closing in on him without being noticed. With a flash of a move Bogart no more had an elephant ear to serve as a pocket on his right thigh. He was standing there; erect with the shock in his mutilated trousers, reflecting a good two-palm size naked skin.

Darlene was laughing. Then she stopped laughing and looked at the man. 'Your skin is fantastic', she stated.

Bogart almost suffocated. He finally stopped coughing and started panicking. There is no way to take her out to dinner with half of his leg sticking out naked from ragged trousers. He also shared this view with Darlene.

'No sweat', consoled Darlene. 'I live in the neighbourhood, come up to my place. Aside from having a stamp collection I happen to have a spare pair of trousers somewhere.' Then she suddenly remembered her brother, who, around the end of his honeymoon, popped in last night and seized the wonderful opportunity to inflame a row with his newlywed wife. The new madam fled in tears, her lonely husband in tow. It would only take a couple of years for the family to reunite… Darlene did not take it to her heart as she was not the kind to do so. She got over the catastrophe.

Therefore she seemed to have forgotten that her other brother has just recently visited, having brought a truckload of toys and all of his puberting kids. Kids were taken home without any of them lost, but toys apparently got left behind by the dozen in the otherwise neat apartment of Darlene.

Bogart was far from being called frivolous, but he accepted the invitation without any further ado. They walked down to the riverbank and set out to the girl's apartment. Bogart sometimes grabbed his naked thigh, just to be followed by the laughter of Darlene. 'It was good - I mean the way you showed them your gun', she said.

'I have no gun', confessed Bogart finally.

'That does not matter', she said.

And that was the end to it. They were strolling on the riverbank, and the majestic water was flowing right next to their feet, reflecting tricky patterns of the moon. Bogart cursed inward as none of his professionally prescribed punchlines popped into his mind. He secretly withdrew the slip of paper from his pocket and hunched on a flat stone to decipher his writing, acting as though he was immersed in the joy of gazing at the flowing river.

Darlene has also noted something worthy to see, however, it was not in the water but on the bank. She turned away from the man and bent, sighing probably a weak 'Frog.'

Bogart was far from being absolutely sure about the exact species as he lost footing as a result of the girl's thigh jousting him, falling headlong into the river with admirable speed.

The water was shallow with some sediment at the bottom, interspersed with wet weeds of various sizes. Such weeds gilded his shoulders as he emerged from the waves, supported by the caring girl. Darlene meticulously collected the sick-smelling leaf bundles from his jacket and meekly remarked that most likely it was a toad instead.

'No more arguments now, you should come up to my place immediately', said the girl. 'Probably there are not only trousers but also there is a spare shirt and some socks as well at home…'

'Plus a couple of other items of clothing, to say the least', sighed Bogart. He felt that he had never ever looked more pitiful than this. He has seen only better days… 'Now what?', he sighed. He also lost his piece of cheatnote as well while falling and he had nothing rolling to say. Even if he were to say something brilliant, he would not be able to say it with chattering teeth anyway.

Darlene took his hand, her skin alive and hot, her spirit undented. 'Let's run before you catch cold.'

And so they ran.

As soon as they stepped into the apartment Darlene touched something slimy while looking for the light switch. 'Damn it, this must have been Rambo Jet. Jam, most likely.'

'Who is Rambo Jet?' enquired Bogart feebly. Meanwhile, he took a cautious step ahead in the dark anteroom, and he raised his foot to step over something that has been looming in the darkness. Unfortunately, however late was the dawning of the realisation that he was in trouble, he stepped onto the object. He immediately realised that the mine ahead was a skateboard, which started to gain speed with him on its back without hesitation. While on the speedy course he heard that Darlene has dutifully answered his question.

'Rambo Jet is my nephew. He is three.'

Bogart, although older than thirty, skated away gracefully on the board, right until the opposite wall. There he stopped for a minute to determine whether he was male or female, but the question was of no significant importance then.

Darlene chose to pretend not to notice the rather embarrassing situation her guest found himself in. She stepped into the living room, turned on the lights, discovered her favourite cat and cooed sweetly to him. The Siamese feline gave out some death meows.

'Oh, are you that hungry?', asked Darlene. She took the squeaking blue-eyed animal into her arms and set out to the kitchen. By this time Bogart also managed to peel himself off from the wallpaper and he just started to do something about his bleeding nose.

'Better you take a bath now. A hot shower can do you only good', she said. 'The bathroom is on the left. By the time you finish I will put together something to eat.'

The man gave no reply, as his mouth was temporarily full with his swollen, bleeding tongue. He thought he needed nothing else to bite on for the moment. He dutifully visited the bathroom and got rid of his damp clothes. He put on Darlene's soft bathrobe and felt himself almost contended.

He sat down by the kitchen table and looked around. He liked what he saw, the small, clean dining room filled with wooden furniture. They had dinner together. They were talking and laughing. Darlene let her hair down, got rid of her shoes and was flexing her leg muscles. Bogart had his eyes bulging. The cat munched on something resembling a brick in appearance and probably substance as well.

Later on they opened a bottle of champagne, listened to some music, while the Siamese jumped onto to top of the commode and began to rub himself against the frame of the painting hanging above. The painting showed two ladies from the profile, with the left one bearing some kind of a scar on her temple, looking like a gunshot wound.

'Was it shot?', asked Bogart with the interest of the layman. Meanwhile, he was stroking the cat, which continued to rub against the frame with an arching back, lifting it slightly… then a bit more, finally lifting the painting off of its hook. The painting began to descend and Bogart could get a rather close look at it.

With all due shock he could get a further, extremely close look when he tore through the canvas with his head and the painting landed on his shoulders.

'I have inherited it from my grandmother', explained Darlene with enthusiasm. 'Her cat had also knocked it off once and it fell directly on my grandpa. The restorer did a great job on it.'

'Indeed he did', grumbled Bogart. He took off his stylish collar. The Siamese beast was keeping a close watch on the strange guest from the other corner of the room.

'Oh, Bogart', sighed the girl unexpectedly, with a beaming smile and her magnificent eyes reflecting the colour of thick honey. 'You'd better sleep here tonight. Anything can happen to you out on the street. My grandpa used to say that after three annoyances it is time to get a rest. You may sleep on the sofa.'

Since he did not resist she began to make the sofa. In the meantime she kept thinking about why the honeymooners got mad last night, as the sofa offered little space, which could also have been used for better purposes. When she finished she said goodnight and went back to the bedroom.

*

It took a long time for Bogart to drift into sleep, as he was tempted from time to time by the fact that Darlene was sleeping in the adjacent room. The Siamese, on the other hand was occupying most of his leg space, and executed storming raids against its mites at an average two-minute intervals. Maybe a result of the gentle rocking, Bogart finally went to deep sleep.

He was dreaming about going back to the psychiatrist and hitting him square on the nose to prove how successful the un-inhibitance session was. The guy stumbled back into the soft leather chair he always used to look so intelligent in, wiped away the blood from his nose with the back of his palm and said with a forced smile 'You are cured. You already behave like a man.'

Bogart hovered over him and pocketed both hands. 'Really?', he enquired. 'And do you have anything to add to the fact that the height of my masculinity in female company is a smile from the lady and a Be a man and fetch a beer?'

In his dreams the psychiatrist was about to answer with his usual soothing mask on his face - while something else happened in reality as well. The door cracked open, steps echoed on the carpet and the Siamese beast fled from the sofa, leaving its mites behind.

Bogart immediately forgot about his intentions to tear the psychiatrist apart to compensate for his clumsiness, since the only one to approach the bed could be Darlene, with some intentions in mind.

He was not mistaken. The footsteps died beside the bed, his blanket was lifted and a body slid alongside him. Bogart's system reacted immediately to the event. A hot hand touched his shoulder and hot lips caressed his neck - a bit stubby and sturdy at it, but no one is perfect.

Suddenly teeth and nails bit into him, pushing the limit between pleasure and pain clearly into the pain territory, disappointing him sadly.

He wanted to holler and wanted to flee, when Dracula finally released his bite. 'See honey? I am back.'

The voice definitely did not belong to Darlene, but to a guy, who smokes far too many cigarettes and it turns his voice scratchy.

Bogart ejected from the sofa. The dive was perfect, arching over Dracula. He dragged his blanket on for a couple of meters, but he finally shed it and took refuge in Darlene's room. Without any loss in his momentum he went straight into the bed, finding safe harbour under the sheets.

Dracula followed him, stopped at the door, turned the lights on and stood there indignantly. 'You are my wife. If I bite I will bite', he said.

Darlene looked at her brother in the doorframe, giggling. 'So this is why she left you, brother? By the way, it was not her you found on the sofa. I love guest traffic in my apartment, but you munching on poor Bogart is a bit too much.'

'Where is my wife?' asked the suddenly sober Dracula.

Darlene shrugged. Her brother backed out from the room with a heavy sigh, leaving them to themselves.

Bogart peeped out from below the sheets. 'I think I'd better go home. My clothes must already have dried off', he said.

Darlene moved closer, smiling, with her white teeth glistening in the lights. 'I like you. I bet I would never be bored with you', she said.

'It is one thing to love someone, but it is quite another to laugh about him!'

'And another is to have fun with him', sighed Darlene and moved closer to Bogart's lips.

Bogart knew that the game was over. Darlene wanted him and he wanted her as well, but it would not work, not tonight, since men, however surprising, do have a soul, and his was seriously damaged in the past couple of hours. Under the circumstances only failure was guaranteed, therefore he deliberately pushed away the sandalwood-smelling, sweet-skinned divine piece of lady.

'Tomorrow, dear.'

'It is already tomorrow', whispered Darlene.

'I cannot be taken so simply.'

'Then let it be', she said, turning off the lamp and wriggling for a little while, then falling silent.

Bogart was listening to the hollow silence of the room. He felt nothing, but that was the way it was for thirty years. It seemed absolutely sure that another thirty could go by in similar disinterest.

Maybe Darlene could change that. Although his shoulders were aching, his lip was broken and his nose hurting he realised that he only had physical pains, while his soul was at rest.

He rested on his elbow and put his other hand on the shoulder of the girl and pecked a light kiss on it.

The automatic bed chose the very moment to slowly fold against the wall. They found themselves in tight, lustful quarters.

And they surely knew what to do.