When her workday comes to an end, Matilde looks to see what is on her “poor wretch” list that night. A glass of wine somewhere in the Olde Towne with an ex-colleague, who suffers from an endless, heavy-duty phobia and mild paranoia. A classic case. This time Matilde sighs because she would much rather go directly to the market to buy some tuna for her cat, chicken backs (with the parson’s nose still on) for herself, and just maybe, go through the tunnel at the railway station where she might come across a Bitow or Tolstoy book at some booth. That would be a good evening for her.

She is already calmly sipping her wine, when parched as a greyhound, black rings under her eyes, her colleague storms in. She circles like a wolf chasing its tail. How insane, such an age, but you look so good, how good you look at your age, how can one look so good at an age like yours, if I even live to your age – it seems way over the hill – your age ... Matilde does understand that this nerve-driven compliment is intended for her age. She gives her colleague a sip of wine from her glass, to calm her down a bit.

Her colleague proceeds to tell her what has happened to her and she wants to know: Is it or is it not her paranoia at play?

In a flash she downs the glass of wine brought by the waiter, but it does not calm her down.