She pushes a pram along furniture-laden hallways. (In retrospect the entire place is compartmentalised, so similar to our whole country in general.) In each little corner a space of strikingly different ambience is tucked away, and I get the feeling that we are looking through invisible windows in an inhabited street, each home looking perfect with price tags intact.
Her hair is bundled into a messy bun with streaks of dyed gold and she walks in front of me. When she bends over her back exposes a strip of skin as thick as a blindfold. A scar snakes up from the waistband of her jeans like a vine reaching for sunlight, yet stopping short halfway. It is a deep purplish colour. Twice I see it, but I don’t see her face clearly; I will never find out her story.