You know, every cognitive therapy textbook says you should run from Tens, I said to Mia over the phone for what must have been the third time stepping outside the shop. The sun had already taken full possession of the sky, and I seized every excuse to go out and catch a few rays on my skin. That made me feel more alive before stepping into the white, museum-like walls of the boutique where I had to spend eight hours a day.
A narrow street in the old part of the city center. Too many cars, too little space. Just nearby was Zbawix, or Savior Square, the round square beloved by Warsaw's hipsters, with the French café Charlotte and its constellation of fashionable bars; once, on the lawn of the traffic circle, stood a monumental rainbow by a Polish woman artist.
Later, local Catholic nationalists burned it down. Unable to tolerate it with even a fraction of the patience of the Savior after whom the square had been named, they turned that rainbow into something even larger than a work of art. It settled permanently into the recent history of the city: troublesome contemporary art, political fault lines, vandalism committed in the name of saving the city, hatred marching beneath the banner of sacred love.
And so on.
"You should run from Tens," I repeated into the phone, leaving unsaid that to me she was not a Ten at all but a Fifteen. Or not really a Fifteen, of course, even if it was the fifteenth of July, but an Eleven, if anything higher.