Her name is Veronica Perrone, but more than fifteen years ago she sat at the same desk as a Belarusian girl called Nika — and since she wanted to change her life, she decided that would be her new name. From her family line she carries matriarchy, which is still a form of patriarchy, which is why in her house even the men clear the table and do the dishes. She drags around the overzealous hospitality of Southern peasants and fights against the instinct to feed people at all costs. She was raised by greengrocer grandparents, and at the age of three she had already mastered the art of negotiation. For years she financed the construction of her therapist’s new villa — which, honestly, is an achievement in itself.
Every now and then she brushes against the sacred with impure words — a sort of exercise to give herself permission to do it without guilt. She hasn’t formally left the Church yet.
She prays for herself.
The end.