Glenda

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She took out a wide notebook, bought from Smithson's for five pounds from her laptop bag, and a Christian Lacroix ballpoint pen and began to write.

A connoisseur of expensive branded items, she cursed herself for not having a simple wool sweater right now.

The cold air on board the Norwegian irritated their already frozen body. She sat all day at Heathrow Airport, didn’t eat anything, warmed herself with tea and cried, drying up only during phone calls to say goodbye and warn that she had flown to Denmark, forever, so that they would no longer look for her, but only write letters and come to visit.

— Bring me a cup of tea with lemon, please. — With thin fingers with peeling varnish, she grabbed the flight attendant running like a hare by the hard textile sleeve so that she almost broke her nails.

She turned around with bulging eyes at the frightening-looking passenger. It was as if she couldn’t come to her senses, but not because of Glenda’s appearance that stopped her, but because of something more serious.

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