I keep weeding the garden; no blood flows from me. My partner’s stomach looks like Buda’s. I have his smile. From the café the aroma of coffee reaches me; I taste the dirt covering my hands. I am a good companion; I cook, clean and care for. I have nowhere to go in which to wear my red high heels. They sit forgotten in a box. He stabs my hand with his fork; it’s just another memory. I laugh with freedom. Overweight women crowd my genes. I eat aubergine´s and paint my nails purple. If you could go back, they ask, what age would you choose? Eight. I do not hesitate.