The crime reporter arrives at her newsroom. "Sorry, my hair's still wet! I'm a mess!" she exclaims. And the trainee makeup artist smiles and says, "Now we fix it. How cute are those shoes?" She, already seated in the makeup chair, says, "Yeah? Edu gave them to me, but, well, what can you expect from a waiter's tastes, right?"
The hairdresser grabs her hair and disappears. Everyone in the makeup room has fallen silent because she's entered. And she, unlike the weather reporter, the economics reporter, the politics reporter, is someone who makes herself heard. "What are you bringing us today?" the guy asks. And she makes a fuss. "Oh, today..." It's one of those days when being a journalist..." She takes a breath. "A woman murdered by her husband. I don't think this is a problem."
The hairdressers, the host, the other guests all look at her. She answers a text message on her cell phone: "No, no, I can't talk to you right now, Pescao!" she says, as if she were saying it to herself. And she clarifies, to the audience, he's a common prisoner enough!" The panelist in the chair next to her asks: "And what does he want?" The editor asks, with theatrical resignation: "What does he want? My mountain body!" The others burst into laughter.
"Look," he continues, "Give me drug dealers, give me bad guys who kill each other, this is like yes". He makes a pause (a long one, Ibsen-esque one). "But let them kill us, no, of course. Being a journalist like that... The other day I wrote an opinion piece, which cost me a lot. a lot, in El Puntazo.com. It was like saying: "Guys, don't kill us, okay?" And what good are my articles? Well, I said it to Edu. For nothing."
The flight attendant approaches her: "You have to go down to the set." And she says: "Let's get to it!"Everyone else is mesmerized as she watches her heels clack down the stairs, bustling and delighted.
