Whoever didn’t hide, it’s not my fault! He felt her walking home through the entire city on a summer night, where she stepped onto the pavement and crossed the street, her heels clicking under the June elms. In the deserted solitude of the night, he got used to her appearance. Handbag in hand. Lavinia's long hair tickles her neck. A layer of lipstick on the lips. Without moving, he walked home in the midnight darkness. She was a frail, dimly white moth; he pinned her to the door frame with a sharp needle of horror. You could walk around this specimen as much as you wanted and look and look at it. Five cute girls in the last two years. Are you scared? “Run,” he ordered. Translation published in the magazine “Nyoman”, No. 8, 2012