We’re both on the balcony. It’s spring. Right next to us is a vast linden tree. You can smell its fragrance. We are sitting comfortably, loosely on green cloth, cheap chairs bought from the market. Feeling the sun on my ankles after a long, hard winter is beautiful. I lift my skirts, shouting ‘Marilyn!’ and then laugh. He loves my madness.

He asks: ‘Wait, what are you doing?’

‘Let them say there’s a crazy writer living in this house. After I die, of course. When my book becomes a bestseller. I don’t care. I will be dead.’

At that moment, while looking at my hands and unkempt nails, I ask.

“What happened to studying Italian?”

He remains silent and doesn’t answer.

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