This morning, Alice’s biggest dilemma was ‘to go or not to go… jogging’. The enthusiastic sides of this acking balance silently disrupted as soon as she went downstairs for cigarettes. Morning coffee, TV news and a brand new pack is enough to shatter away any thought of harsh physical movement. Then, the guilt came, for not doing it; later on, the solutions for the guilt: “What if I don’t jog but don’t eat either? That ought to be enough..I’m not fat anyway..Well..fu*k it!”

A TV show presented emotional encounters on the airport between children and mothers who had left for work in amazing places like Italy, Spain; all the places that are usually a die for and worth leaving ur children behind. These children were quite lost, hadn’t seen their mothers for 4 years and could barely remember how they looked when they were three years old. A young blond prince, aged 7 was asked to describe his mother:

“- Well, she is a brunette, and she has her hair, …arrrgh,..up till.. here. And, she has no wrinkles! She has no wrinkles!”

“- What will you do when you see her?”

“- I’ll tell her that I’ll kiss her”

“- Will you kiss her for real as well, or just tell her that?”

“I’ll just tell her. I will kiss her too, later. Perhaps…”

Alice thought of the damn plane arriving from Milan as of combat air-force carrying an army of working mothers, all coming out of the plane dressed in blue overalls, wearing badges with the euro sign pinned on their chest which used to be a breast and now is screaming out in cents a different type of love.

Then she calmed down, remembering a moment of her childhood when her father came back from Syria one evening and she had innocently asked: “Who is this Mr.?” Later on he became world-wide/kindergarten-type known as the mister who had brought the blond hair doll which got decapitated a year later.

Even later, the same Mr screwed up her vocabulary, as she was just learning new words, by daring to come back from Pakistan in the company of a suitcase. Alice thought until the second grade in school that the true name of a suitcase is Pakistan and everyone else is deeply mistaken. Dummies!

Getting over the globalization drama Alice took a shower and got dressed; black all over! She was supposed to go to an interview similar to a funeral. How the f*ck are assistant managers supposed to look like? She thought a crow is better then a penguin and decided to leave the black shirt on.

They had told her:

 “Dress office tomorrow!”

And she thought:

 “Whaaat? Are u telling me I ought to leave a life of colored skirts and butterflies behind? Are u telling me that this winter in the metro I will not be wearing the knitted red cap I was dreaming of wearing when snowin’? Neither the red coat, nor the matching green gloves? I will never look like an elf again? I won’t get out of the metro in the University square to take a trolley and go to that academy I’ve been dreaming of all these years? Where will I go down? Victory Square? Well…victory my ass! Hell with all of u but,….aaaarrgh! I’ll submit!” Then she bowed her head, shaded a tear, touched with the tip of her tongue the midst of her palm to check if still salty and raised her eyes back, acting decided: “Will do!”

The phone rang violently and the interview got rescheduled for the next day. Alice had spent all her afternoon browsing the net and checking out different departments at notorious universities, viewing and reviewing images of what she could do or she could have done only if: not so many miles apart, not with such a sick mentality, less confused, open-minded parents, without teenage dramas about perspectives and with no so much care either for life or the people living it.

She wished she could have scrolled up and down among the thoughts her brain carried while breathing heavily, just as if it was ready to give birth any second now. Her brain had been almost ready for years. Water broke so many times, especially through the eyes…but in the end, all Alice had been left with was a pond in which she could admire herself with a gaze downwards, while waitin’ for her hair to grow long enough and for the tips to get wet. Only then, she thought, a certain connection or merge could take place, and, finally, she could have a good bath in the substance that had embraced the embryo of the real her, crawling back on her body upstairs, in a different house, in a different city, in a kitchen with a different scent…

She tried it in all possible ways until she got so angry with herself that she felt like biting her own fingers. She was constantly lookin’ in the mirror at a stranger brought by fate or bad luck or an ill-intentioned friend. This strange female copy of Chucky would always deceive her by tempting, by delaying, by whispering lies and thoughts about another registry of possibilities. This woman had no conscience and she drew chalk-limits back at Alice from inside the mirror. When Alice would raise her right hand she would use her left to put it down. When Alice wanted to raise voice she’d switch off and turn to mute. Catching her dressed up all in black one day, Alice thought that she’s in mourning, but no, the glass of champagne stood right by her side and her glorious laughing was shattering the walls in Alice’s brain. Alice raised a finger and got closer to the mirror. This woman had such a big nose that it was impossible to miss it! She managed to touch it but she could find no soap-bubbles! Nothing broke or blasted. The mirror felt watery and gluey. Alice barely managed to take back her finger and the image was back as a whole again. Her finger smelled of sweat and champagne and a very expensive perfume which she hated even if her mother had saved it up for her in a drawer for years. She always thought her daughter will love wearing it as a grown woman.

Alice looked at the finger and thought of giving it a taste. The smell was all there but the taste was empty. She couldn’t feel a thing. She tried licking, then biting; she ate the whole nail off; still nothing. Looked in the mirror with despair and saw the woman inside holding her belly while laughing out loud. She got a little dizzy, then a bit sick; she walked towards the bed and crashed in it covering herself with a thick blanket. The lights went out for Alice as she was slowly fainting into sleep.

In the mirror a neon light suddenly went on as the woman inside starting trying on business outfits, reading sites about multinational companies and answering important calls, scheduling hours…Alice’s nail grew right back on. The next day you couldn’t see a bite on it as she was putting on fresh nail polish, pulling up the zipper to a pair of brand new black pants, tying the shoe-laces of her black shoes and puffing perfume from an old bottle of Channel No 5.