“she could boldly move it move it”. She promised herself that her gauntness would become her past, but not yet today. She had coffee stains on her near-fashionable blouse which she got from someone – the spoils of the last year’s discounts. The coffee traces in her more and more thoughts made it possible for her to ask questions like, “How long can one to oneself oneself? Is it possible to be the sole interlocutor?” She smiled, clearly scornful of her own thoughts, while in the corner of her swollen lips there ruled pride which wouldn’t as yet allow her to despise herself.

If I go back to London now and I fail again, I’ll start complaining over every mite of dust in the air. I’ll disappear into the airy room over myself. Isn’t the ideal of oneself most terrifying – what I want to become…” She translated herself into English. The rustle of her thoughts was louder than she’d like it to be. For a few seconds, she lost touch with herself. Pieces of the concrete shoulder screamed and rolled a few yards away. Two particles collided, unevenly fusing into an unrecognizable shape. A car approached, a black man was shouting some words to a girl, Little Trouble Girl by Sonic Youth was playing on the radio. He slowed down, opened the door. The splitting of their atom burst with doubled force. Katka watched one of its particles get up off the ground, the car rode away. “What thaaa fuck? What did he say to her? Why did I have to see it?” The girl was tall, her long, bright hair were in total shreds, her jeans threadbare. She was wearing flip-flops, one of which was lying now not far away from Katka. The girl was trying to act as if she just shot a successful stunt scene, hiding tears. Katka stared at her rudely. The girl was ashamed with the disturbed equilibrium of her body. She took cigarettes from out her purse. Her irritation, nervousness, and eagerness to hide them were looking for the lighter. The purse was spilling attributes of femininity. She slipped a few strips on her foot, and looked up before stooping to pick up the gadgets of her sex: a strawberry lipstick, tampons with plastic applicators, and the bottle of perfume. She noticed Katka, who was still sitting on the wall, staring at her.
“You have a lighter?” she cried.
Katka didn’t reply, the girl asked even louder, so that she could hear the echo of her own voice. Katka moved a little bit closer, looked her in the eye and nodded. The girl walked up to her in a silly walk, with her toes an inch out in front of her flip-flops.
“Can I borrow it?”
Katka looked in her direction and whispered, “Her own ideal of herself.”
The girl looked at her as if she were to say, “What the fuck are you talking about?”, but, surprisingly, she didn’t say anything. She was watching Katka’s hand. She pulled a lighter from her left back pocket, but she didn’t hand it to her. Irritated, the girl suggested an exchange – on the condition of two cigarettes, which wasn’t embarrassing, though. They weren’t looking at each other, they made similar movements:
drawing in – letting out, inhaling – exhaling.
“You alright?” asked Katka indifferently.
“Yes, all’s alright,” replied the blonde firmly. She turned away, with the intention of going back for the contents of her purse.
“Are you going to town?” she heard.
“Looks like it,” she said, raising her hands in the air. She drew a circle with them, pointing at the place she found herself in, and extended her hand, “Pam.”
“Katka.”