No cars honking. No ambulances. No barking and no crying adults. No echo or wind in your ears.

After the post office but before returning home Serendipità stops at the bakery, the fish store, the ice cream parlor. She writes down all the things she wants on pieces of paper: cannoli, cento grammi di branzino, red grape sorbet. She hands the slips of paper to the cashiers. Everyone is outside, quiet. She picks flowers outside the ice cream parlor. Serendipità wears a shirt that sends a message—Dr. King in swimming trunks, the sun on his face and on his suprasternal notch, the rest of his body in shadow and surrounded by pool water.

At dusk she wastes time watching the traffic light change from red to green to yellow, standing on the corner for an hour looking at her building from below, at her balcony and all the green mesh netting. Then she returns home. At home she does things she wouldn’t do on a noisy day—lip synching, stretching, also mouthing vile things, being generally profane. In the silence she worries about the ongoing construction.

On the balcony the shadows move. Across the street the wind lifts a white sheet hanging from the clothesline, a big white sheet. Serendipità soaks the dried cannellini beans overnight to prepare for company.

After the silence there’s company. One of the workers isn’t prepared—no tools, no helmet, taking innumerable breaks, smoking breaks, and eating things from the refrigerator without asking. Serendipità finds her on the balcony, sitting down. She doesn’t reprimand her, but they both know she shouldn’t be out there, and that she shouldn’t be sitting. They sit together. Serendipità doesn’t know the worker’s name. While the others bang on the walls and ceilings, they sit together. They feed each other anchovies from a can. The others stand under the red ladder with dust on their arms, with dust on their construction boots, their helmets.

After the silence there’s company. It’s a day for company. They come over in large groups. They drink tea, they discuss politics or the latest societal scandals, the weather. It’s festive and slow. The one hundred construction workers are there, working around the festivities (except for the one construction worker who isn’t working and isn’t prepared).

This is Serendipità’s least favorite day; she doesn’t like gatherings or small talk. She’s in a black dress, velvet. She wears earrings that touch her shoulders. A large part of her back is exposed, a large v of skin, and the muscles in her back move as she moves to pick things up. She sometimes moves to the pitch-black bedroom to rest. After the day of silence the talk of this day burdens—piercing laughter and lipstick on teeth.

The company leaves without Serendipità seeing them out.

(There is a day that cannot be commented upon. It exists and it consists of an extension cord, grape jelly, and hominy grits.)