Heavy cowboy boots hung from the landing. The bluish ash periodically fell far down in fine dust. Mathilda sat on the very edge with her legs dangling, and smoked strong cheap cigarettes, the only ones she could afford. The only ones her father smoked. Father and nothing else. Mathilda would like to say that she absolutely does not care from the high bell tower directly on the smooth asphalt of the capital about what her dear father thinks of her.

After all, he could have thought a little longer than a few seconds and called her by a better name than Mathilda. It tastes like frayed dog hair with remnants of cat food on the dirty floor of an old woman's house from the suburbs.

She had never asked for that name. He could have done something, but he didn't. And even if that very God, about whom there is so much talk among people of her level, decided to pierce this loser with lightning or some kind of his divine grace, hardly anything has changed.

Even if it had changed, Mathilda knows that now it will not be enough for her. Therefore, when you appear -on the second floor- in her life, the girl's heart flutters, and she herself strenuously suppresses this feeling. Not now.

Never.

The neighbors whispered that you were dangerous, but Mathilda herself felt nothing but interest. She probably had nothing to lose. At least, she tried very hard to convince herself of that.