Apartment 73, first floor. Valera lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His left leg is sticking out from under the blanket as usual. The scents of damp soil and lilac waft in from the street. The rain drums on the leaves of a young maple in the front yard. In that social network that Valera now visits only once every couple of months, a notification popped up about the birthday of someone he met only once, about ten years ago, and now he cannot calm down. That evening used to exist in his memory in the finest detail, but now it's like a series of random snapshots: a long strand of his date’s hair, that she kept tucking behind her ear, the broadcast of the «Milan»-«Lazio» football match in the bar (the «Rossoneri» won 3:1, if he recalls correctly), and a recently painted dark-brown bench – they almost landed on it when they were already quite tipsy. Valera can't shake the question «I wonder if she ever thought about that meeting in August? Maybe on her way home in a taxi or just like this — in her bedroom on an early weekend morning?». There is a magical pill that could distract him from such pointless questions — xinyi mix for 5/8: radio. But unfortunately, he doesn't even know it exists. So he continues to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, with his left leg still sticking out from under the blanket.