Professor of literature by Alisa Chazova

June 16, 1904

Dear diary, what a crazy day it was – well, classic day for me, isn’t it? I arrived at work late for about half an hour, but all of my students waited for me patiently. I highly apologized while drinking my usual matcha latte, and to clear my name in their eyes, I decided to tell them why it took me so long. It is an interesting story, truly. I just got back from a corrida in Spain, as you know, but my flight was delayed because the president of the US wanted to take my plane for himself only. Those men of power are making me sick too often these days, to be honest... Never mind, this extra time made me rethink a journey I had, lessons I learnt. First of all, never believe a woman. Once I had – she broke my heart into small pieces in front of my best friend Jake. I even broke his nose in rage, I could not control myself. Not sure if he will ever forgive me. This lady with a boyish haircut was the only reason I even traveled there – and that’s how it went. Because I’m a sincere person, I told all of this to my students. And you know what they did? Just smiled, looking at my tear-filled eyes, and asked if that woman didn’t leave me specifically for a matador. Those young soulless bastards... 

This Spain experience, painful as it was, brought me something useful after all – I learnt Spanish and now speak fluently. It took me only two weeks. Telling this to my students made me remember the time I visited Macondo without this skill yet. Rain drained from the sky for a year straight, but only the first day that I spent there took it to stop. Call me superstitious, but I don’t believe it was a coincidence. People there praised me – but even partying with them week after week, I couldn’t escape a feeling of severe loneliness... 

And at this exact moment, when I showed my most painful memories, students decided to giggle all together. How is that human?! 

I left those ungrateful creatures earlier, and when I got out of university, a small but elegant carriage appeared in my path. The door opened, and a beautiful woman looked at me dearly. She addressed me in French. Luckily, I’m fluent in most European languages. I don’t wish to expose (even here) what exactly she told me – that’s how spicy it was. So I’ll just say that I sat there and did everything in her command without fearing for my reputation, because the curtains hid everything. From the outside, we just peacefully drove for two hours through the city: making circles around fountains, museums, and playgrounds. The hardest part was being quiet enough. 

When we were done, she left me in front of my yard. It took a minute or two to make myself look presentable again, and most importantly – feel this way. Then my wife walked out of the front door, smiling and welcoming me. Some guy stood behind her.  

-- Darling! You wouldn’t believe who got back from India! 

Now recognized him – Peter Walsh; he was in love with her 30 years ago. 

-- Mister Dalloway, good to see you! I was just heading back to the hotel.  

He didn’t even wish to speak with me; she is all he wanted in these walls. 

-- I hope to see you tonight! --  She told him goodbyeing.  

Holding my anger while watching my wife beaming at another male, I found a good thing in this situation – now I can feel neutral about my recent affair with Emma. What a woman... Hope her husband never finds out about what she did; this knowledge would kill poor Doctor Bovary.