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hunched back, now an odd, large tit, then the drooping
corner of her mouth. What she was, she was. She could not
step outside of her own skin. She carried herself along with
her – like the large snails in her little garden carried their
houses on their backs. Only what she carried could not be
compared to the delicate shell of the snail.
In the evenings, when she saw films on love, she too
wanted to make love. Sweet shivers ran from her neck
downward, tingled in the nether regions of her tummy. She
had tried to touch herself there, but she always lacked
courage and was overtaken by shame. But in her dreams,
the film stars often returned and claimed her. Then she
woke up happy sweat-drenched, and moist down there.
When she wanted to bring herself a bit of fleeting
happiness, she drank vodka. On one of these occasions, she
seemed different to herself – as if the mirror had created a
princess in place of a frog. She pulled various pieces of
clothing from her cupboard, tried them on in several
combinations and was altogether pleased with herself. That
time she fell asleep in her bed fully dressed, with her boots
still on. In the morning she guiltily gathered the scattered
clothes and turned the mirror by the washstand face
backward. She put on her warm pants, the heavy canvas
jacket, pulled on her thick knitted hat with the earflaps and
left for the factory. The customary din there calmed her and
her headache vanished.