Vox drags her boots unwillingly. She came home late last night with her Lancia Aurelia B24. It seemed that her guests didn’t want to leave. She moved among them, in her oversized white cashmere sweater coordinated with a silk pencil skirt, greeting them with a smile, touching them in an always-accidental manner and exchanging a few words. Her tone was natural and jaunty because she was glad to see them and to have them as guests. She observed their behaviour with her very big eyes similar to a phonograph horn. Her age is the right one to have sex tirelessly. Vox is rich, educated, smart, intelligent and indolent, she is a stereotype, but with a fresh eye on the world and on things. She seems to be made of rubber, bouncing off life, off its bad events as well as off its happy events. She has good manners. Her parents gave her a marble-solid skeleton that she mitigated with her lightness. That’s because, as a writer said, “lightness is not superficiality, but gliding above things, not having weights on your heart”.
