The god of love
Mia was sitting in the stands in the third row and wearing a light blue jumper. She could have been anywhere, she didn’t care, a cinema, a theatre, a premiere of something… everything was equally pointless for her anyway.
In the stands on the third row she ate crisps, making a frenzied noise in the hum of anticipation.
At a certain point, her mother turned towards her but didn’t say anything. Mia took advantage of this to keep that gaze for a long time. Looking her in the eye, she stuck her hand in the bag, pulling it out completely full and shiny with grease, then shoved it in her open mouth. Little yellow pieces fell on the ground, others stuck to her legs or to her jumper. Then she wiped her dirty hands on her hips, sniffing slightly, just to be disgusting.
Mia noticed a new wrinkle on her mother’s face. She wondered whether it was the moment of anger or a sign of age.
What was a sign of age exactly? And why think about something that was so far off for her? She would use this in her next essay to say something about herself. She came to the conclusion that it couldn’t happen to her, she couldn’t age, and neither would she ever use make-up or follow fad diets. If you haven’t met the god of love you don’t get old, you can cry as much as you like but you can’t move from where you are. This was what she thought and this is what she would write in her next essay.