I don’t look as belligerent as I did a few minutes ago, and I’m even shy to enter the kitchen. I stop in the aisle, leaning my shoulder against the side wall and inseparably watching the pirouettes of a guy bustling around a white tabletop. I don’t see what he is doing there, but judging by the sounds and posture, he is wielding a knife. I would like to object, saying that it is not the time to have lunch, when one can say that fate is being decided, but I still do not dare, continuing to silently drive my eyes along my strong back and watch my hands. They...