On the day all the hair is removed Serendipità sleeps with Raven. They meet on the balcony with the green netting. They take turns straddling, filling, pushing—pushing a neck. They sleep on the balcony. For Raven it’s an act of rebellion; for Serendipità it’s something else entirely. An erect middle and index finger, both women are hairless, soft. Tonguing, Serendipità looks at the crevices in the apartment wall. Serendipità wears a diamond necklace and hanging diamond earrings. The jewelry clatters as they circle. The wind is on their abdomen. Raven opens her mouth and the silver fillings show. The saliva lands in Raven’s open mouth. The plant sits nearby.

On the day the hair is removed Serendipità’s father calls her on the landline. She listens on the receiver but doesn’t speak a word.

In the morning there’s fire—a few objects must be chosen (three) to be added to it. In the morning Serendipità’s hair is long. Serendipità has no feelings about this day; she’s indifferent. She chooses the objects (three) and moves to the heavy front door. She moves down the stairs, to the courtyard. The one hundred construction workers follow. She joins the crowd of humid boisterous hairy people on their way to burn things. In the distance, smoke. Serendipità looks for Raven. The walk is long and the crowd is thick.

Serendipità listens to the chatter: and? no, no, the children are growing so what do they need with a child’s toy? jazz; the jasmine should be replaced with arborio; glass jars of tuna in olive oil; braided it with beads at the ends, beads, yes, bees; a box with seashells glued to the outside and a guitar; baby’s breath, purchased a nose, a hammer to the nose; the shears; the sheer dress with the long sleeves; an earring; an owl.

The burning is quick, it’s the walking that takes too long. When she’s close the fire is not so hot against her face and her neck. Against her knees the fire is warm, on her ankles the fire burns. She throws the objects in one at a time, thinking about Raven’s elbows. Serendipità burns the items that were handed down to her; she still owns so much. The people who have nothing to burn are allowed to give a small part of themselves—sometimes hair, sometimes fingernails, skin, one third of an organ. There is chatter and crying around her. The fire feels hot against Serendipità’s back, her wrists.