In the nearby woods she came to know every path, each tiny track, bog and marsh. Often, even before she went to work, she managed to do a quick tour of the woods to gather flowers, mushrooms or berries. The chanterelles, king porcinis and orange-capped scaber stalks she sold. Of all the mushrooms she herself liked the honey gilled mushrooms the best, although the locals never picked these. And she loved cowberry jam.

Nadezhda Mihailovna tried not to look in a mirror. Having brushed her teeth and washed her face, she instantly reached for a towel and turned her back to the mirror. Only occasionally, by chance, she caught glimpses of bits of herself. Now and then a flash of a slanted eye, then the 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.

… jar, lid, jar, lid, jar, lid, jar, lid, jar, lid … Nadezhda

Mihailovna performed the synchronized routine moves.

There is a wonderful emptiness in her head.

It does not hurt, humiliate, despise, or denigrate.

Having scrambled out of bed, she puts on water to boil for tea. Turns on the taps to fill the bathtub. She greets her stocky, thickset frame in the large mirror. Her belly button seems to her to be the most ludicrous of all – not a small, lovely button, like the ones seen in TV commercials, but a wrinkled troll’s eye – now closed, now open. She also has a hard struggle with hair, it grows back in an instant, especially under her arms.