They are empty space, they are nobody. They are similar, although their lives are so different. Both are well over thirty, but one is a fluttering strange butterfly in a veil of golden tan, smelling of musk and almonds, poisoned by Botox and luxury. The other is a “divorcee”, exhausted by a difficult life and the oppression of melancholy, abandoned by her alcoholic husband. Both have a bright past and a dim future. Both understand that by the time they reached their thirties they had acquired nothing at all except memories. They are afraid that there is no future. Masha Tsareva’s new novel is tender, sometimes sad, and sometimes quite cynical. The story of disappointments and senseless running in circles, that instead of passively waiting for a trump card, you can safely open new doors and, at least by the middle of your life, finally learn to become its only captain.