She goes into the nail shop, whose name is amusing—in Spanish, of course—and which refers to the bad name a wicked stepmother can have, with nails as red as if she'd just ripped out a chicken's heart. "Yesterday I was planting peas," she excuses herself. Her nails are "in mourning," as they used to say: she'd heard her grandparents say it, when they were working. "Could I just get a little fix?" she asks. And the worker, Yoli, tells her yes, of course, but that she'll have to register her first. She was schooled in Catalan and speaks it perfectly. Her parents speak it immediately; they're Ecuadorian. She came to live in Catalonia when she was nine. She lives in Hospitalet, and to get to Barcelona, she explains, she takes the metro to the university area and then the bus. It takes an hour, between everything.
"Oh, such stressed hands!" Yoli tells her.
And immediately after, he asks her if she'd like a cream with a floral, citrus, or milky scent. The woman chooses citrus, and Yoli celebrates. He asks her to take off her ring, and from the woman's smile, she understands it must be expensive. He begins to caress her palms, and the other, like a cat, gives in. His hands on top of hers, the sound of bottle caps being opened, the smooth lemon. "You can keep the lemon, because we always use reusable materials," Yoli explains, as if she's surprised her. She smiles. "That's great!" she exclaims, pleased by the girl's joy, so pure. And immediately, without being able to stop herself, she chokes down tears. "Sorry," Somica. "It's just that I had a rough night..." Yoli shakes her head. "It happens to many of you," she says. "An argument with your husband, right?" She presses his fingers, one by one. "Not even that. If we had argued... But because he didn't listen to me, he left the house," she asks, with lips like a resigned turtle. "Can I dry my eyes?" And Yoli says: "Not yet. I'll dry them for you, just wait."
