"What a dress!" Judit exclaimed. "Where did you get it?"

She picked up the turquoise, short, muslin summer dress from her friend's bed, admiring the delicate bead-adorned straps.

Bianka barely perceptibly curled her lips.

Fifteen minutes before the class began, all the participants had arrived for the one-day gluten-free baking course. In the spacious, sunlit waiting room—made cozy by dazzling white walls and apple-green faux-leather sofas and armchairs—twelve women chatted excitedly, each with their acquaintances.

“I swear, Bori, you should do stand-up,” Tamara groaned, clutching her side, sore from laughter.

“I always tell her the same,” chimed in Era, her other best friend. “I don’t know anyone else with humor like hers.”

"Don't be scared!"

Amanda's piercing scream made the nearby windows tremble.

"Sssh, don't be afraid, I won't hurt you."

A colorful, fairy-like figure emerged from the darkness.

"It’s one thing that my butt and thighs are freezing, but not even being able to sit down on this damn bus? Of course, the only available seats are the aisle ones…"

—Name?

—Dear Friend.

—Occupation?

—Emotional dumpster.

—What’s that?

—You know, someone people call when they need to unburden their soul.

"What's up with the guy who's harassing you?"

"What? Someone's harassing you?"

"You didn't even know?"

The two friends looked questioningly at Hilda, who was sitting across from them.

“Alfie!” shouted the group of thirty-somethings at the table in unison.

Beer mugs, wine glasses, and shot glasses were raised high as the man entered the bar.

His mother used to scare him as a child, saying that biting his nails would cause them to collect in his intestines, forming a lump that could eventually kill him. Terrified of such a gruesome death, he tried to impose a limit: one nail a day, slowly, savoring it, in the smallest possible pieces.

Sonja threw herself into Pablo’s arms so suddenly that the man in his early sixties nearly lost his balance. Luckily, his reflexes were still sharp.