Soon she said her good-byes. Mia kissed her mother on the cheek near her ear. Her mother’s hair smelled of hospital disinfectant and cigarettes. Mia pulled out the green perfume bottle and sprayed her mother behind both ears and in the hollow formed by her collar bone. Her mother smiled gratefully, rubbed her neck and turned to leave. Mia gazed after her as she left, cigarette packs in one hand, the precious bottle clutched in the other. A short-haired Mona Lisa in a purple pullover and blue training pants, padding away in pursuit of happiness. The slippers with their trodden down heels shuffling against the asphalt.

Shuffle. Shuffle.

“The plants look terribly frail,” Mia says.

“Give them a night and they’ll perk up,” her father says on noticing Mia’s concerned look. “We just need to water them properly.”

Sitting on the grass, she gazes at the thin jets of water spurting through the holes of the watering can spout. In the sun the water appears coloured – in yellowish violet hues. The earth mixes with the water. It collects around the plants. As if they had sprouted footprints left by beasts. Whoever will drink from these will turn into a beast.

The jets of water have hit a bumble bee. With soaked wings she weaves along the blades of grass toward the sun. Mia picks off a leaf and helps the soaked, velvety creature move forward. Reaching warmth, the bee immediately begins to test her wings. They are heavy with water, and, it appears as if even the most minimal movement takes incredible effort. The transparent, fragile wing leaves open and fold. Open and fold.

Her father has once more broken off a whole armful of blossoming branches. He has brought them into the parlour, to replace the previous ones not yet faded. Into the parlour, which he now keeps tidy. He sweeps the floor whether it needs it or not, dusts off non-existent grime from the table and the bookshelves. He waters the cacti, which already have had too much water.

In silence they outwait each other. Who will be the first to go under mother’s bridge? Who will begin to organize and air it out? They are fragile – they don’t want to open that door. Shake out that blanket. Change that pillowcase. Wash that dish. Rinse that glass.

Her father has fallen asleep in the parlour. The sun warms his bare feet. The bitch seems to have blossomed on the cold floor. Her wide flanks move lightly up and down. Her father breathes silently. When the light racing across the room grows brighter, his eyes appear through narrowly slit eyelids. Appear and disappear. Appear and disappear.

Mia quietly climbs the stairs. She opens the door to her mother’s room. The sun lights up the dusty, litter-strewn floor. A perfume bottle, its contents long ago evaporated, a few hairpins, empty medicine packets and vials stand on the shelf by the oldfashioned mirror. Pushed against the wall is a dusty bookshelf, on which between two ashtrays leans a yellowed picture of Mia as a child – in it Mia is holding pressed to her lips some sort of flower, which has bled to form a fuzzy stain in the photograph.