The sun was shining through the windows of the huge mansion, reflecting off the crystal loofahs and gilding. Michael stood in the hallway, feeling like an ant in a royal palace. His hands, accustomed to textbooks, clutched an old bag bought at a garage sale for pennies. He looked around: the marble floor, the huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling like a starry sky, the scent of expensive perfume mixed with the smell of fresh flowers that seemed to float in every corner, Her perfume, which she wore every day, cost more than he could earn in the future, and him, in his worn mustard-colored trousers and a shirt that had already been washed to holes more than once and was tucked into the trousers.

He looked at her, at her perfectly coiffed hair, at the dress that he knew was from the latest collection of some famous designer. Michael looked at himself in the mirror hanging on the wall. His reflection seemed so small in this grandeur.

His throat tightened. He wanted to say something clever, witty, but the words were stuck somewhere inside, as if they were afraid to break out.

After dinner, which he could barely eat in the presence of her father and mother, who clearly did not approve of their daughter's choice, but hid it under a mask of politeness, because they did not want to quarrel with their beloved daughter, afraid of accidentally dropping a fork in the wrong hand, she took him to her room. The room was huge, with a huge window that looked out onto a garden that could have been a park. His bag stood near her table, on which there was an awful lot of cosmetics and perfume: just one cap of them cost more than his entire house.