Marta got sick. 

The Blue Tiger, nervously wagging his tail, stomped on the carpet in the hallway. He had a black leather patch over his right eye, tied with a black silk ribbon. The thing is, the Blue Tiger’s right eye has recently begun to twitch and, eventually, completely closed. Marta observed him and wondered. It started after their honeymoon in the City of Dust.

Once, over breakfast, she considered two theories. The first was rational: Tiger had been gifted with the ability to sleep with one eye open since childhood, and he was probably so bored with being with her that he was sleeping all the time. The second version was based on Marta’s sense of what she knew she was falling for. According to Marta’s observations, Tiger squinted his right eye at moments of extreme joy and pleasure. And it was such a thrill for Tiger to watch Marta so closely that he felt nirvana all the time. Marta couldn’t choose between her two diagnoses. So the temporary patch decision was made.

But now Marta got sick. 

Blue Tiger wandered around the hallway, bumping into his beloved velvet chair. His ears were turned up. He listened. As soon as he heard the sound of the door closing in the hall, he walked briskly into Marta’s room. The doctor forbade him to disturb her, but the Blue Tiger just waited for the doc to leave. 

Marta wasn’t asleep; she started talking first. 

– ‘I think I should probably leave again.’

It was hard for the Blue Tiger to tell if she still had the strength to coquette. And he was also tired from a long worry. He seemed to have left his favorite beige trench coat somewhere, too. 

–‘Will you return to the city from which I received your letters?’– he asked in a completely calm manner; his tail did not even twitch nervously, at least not noticeably in the dark room.

–‘No’– She turned away and squinted her eyes, gazing into the too-bright streak of red sunset from under the thick blinds.

The Tiger was silent. He was thinking.

Marta continued.

–‘I won’t stay far, this time, I won’t tear the chain’ – and she stroked the sheets with her wing, weakly but with a wicked smile (as we remember, Marta had a wing instead of her left hand). The chain from her wing was pinned to the Blue Tiger’s tail and made a distinctive sound. 

At this moment, though, Tiger’s tail let him down; it swept up, and the links of the thin silver chain rustled in the air. 

Marta smiled, but now tiredly, kindly. 

–‘But I need to go’– she continued quickly, confidently, –‘I confess, I had a good time, but the City of Dust tired me out. I am weak. But don’t worry, I’ve made up my mind.’

Marta tried to get up on her elbows, and Tiger lay beside her and put his big warm shoulder under her head. 

–‘There were days when I escaped from you’– she confessed, her eyes downcast, and went on quickly, –‘And that’s where I met the people from Sunset City. And this city is similar to that former city: it also has a lot of water, and the air is different. It’s very, very nearby. But only now, with Sunsets, I feel more secure. It’s quieter there. And you can visit me’– she added, confused, and, closing her eyes, leaned back against Tiger’s soft paw.

The Blue Tiger considered the answer for a while. He habitually wanted to get a joint out of his pocket, but remembering again about his lost trench coat, he only wrinkled his nose lazily and asked:

–‘Do I need to ask why you ran away?’– he said in a very calm and familiar tone.

–‘Hardly. I was afraid of being intrusive to you. I can’t keep working on my theory here. Because I spend too much time working on you. This abuse of my free time on your part got me down.’ 

Marta said it lazily, a little ashamed of her confession. 

Thinking a bit more, Tiger offered her an omelet for dinner before the trip. Marta agreed. 

When he left to cook, she promptly reached for her vials of painkillers. And then, pressing her right hand against the place where, under her collarbone, fresh, new feathers from her wing were digging into her heart, she drew the telegram from under the pillows and greedily reread it. The letter had already been crumpled repeatedly and then smoothed out afterward. 

On heavy paper, in thin, crooked handwriting, was written out: ‘You’ve been coming less often. I’m not happy. Your gift was delivered, thank you.’

The letter was dated the month Marta ran away from the Blue Tiger. 

Marta crumpled up the letter and held the clump of paper in her fist a bit longer. Then, bending decisively over all the blankets and almost halfway under the bed, she pulled out a beige cloak and put the telegram in the right pocket. She shoved the trench coat back beneath the bed and laid herself down again under the sheets. 

–‘I didn’t know you could get sick from telegrams just because they weren’t written by you,’ she said out loud in the empty room.