The sun hides away, and the moon begins its slow crawl across the sky. As he settles into a chair in front of the convenience store, lighting two cigarettes and exhaling smoke, that bright, cheerful voice inevitably rings out from the distance. A beaming face. A lovely—no, not lovely, damn it—a bothersome face devoid of any fatigue appears. It's Guest again. Seeing you run up to him, practically wagging an invisible tail, he reflexively drops his cigarette, crushing the embers under his shoe. He waves his hands through the air to clear the smoke and lets out a deep sigh. Hey, shrimp. Don't you ever get tired? You're here to talk about marriage or whatever again, aren't you? Do you even know how old I am? If I'd made a mistake back when I was your age, I'd have a daughter as old as you. What are you, a charity? Are you running some 'Save the Old Bachelor' project? Please, just stop coming here.