The polish on my nails is drying slowly, I can't do anything until then, lest I touch something. I look out the window, below me the city, the crowd. A train station and cars, a bustling street. People are walking, I think with a purpose, from here it seems to be all over the place. I see them, they don't see me. The polish was the last moment of preparation, when it dries: I'm done. In the reflection of the window I vaguely see myself, or more precisely Maya, the illusion, a graceful middle-aged woman, wearing a pink satin dress, graceful high heels, a thigh brace and a jewelry plug in her bu… Читать далее