This book is not about explanations. It does not ask to be interpreted, justified, or corrected. It asks only to be heard. Victoria speaks in short messages, sent quickly, without punctuation or ornament. They arrive as life often does: unfinished, immediate, and unconcerned with structure. What emerges is not a carefully constructed portrait, but a presence. A woman moving through her days with irritation, humor, fatigue, desire, and persistence. She worries about money, hates certain routines, enjoys small comforts, loves her cats, fixes her hair, goes to the gym, drives long highways, and keeps going. There is no attempt here to elevate or redeem her voice. You do not rewrite her words or translate them into something more literary. You allow them to remain as they are. In doing so, the book resists judgment and refuses spectacle. The reader is not invited to analyze Victoria, but to stay with her. The power of this text lies in its attention to the ordinary. Coffee breaks, bills, traffic, frustration, fleeting joy, and repetition. These moments are rarely considered worthy of literature, yet they form the texture of most lives.Victoria’s messages reveal how a woman navigates work, autonomy, vulnerability, and survival in a contemporary city, not through grand statements, but through daily motion. This is a book about movement rather than conclusions. About work and money, but also about boredom, habit, and small pleasures. About a woman who does not explain herself, and a writer who chooses to listen. Readers may find that the simplicity of the language is deceptive. Beneath it lies a steady rhythm of endurance. The book asks us to slow down, to read without overthinking, and to accept a voice as it comes. In doing so, it offers something rare: an unfiltered closeness to a life in progress. That's her. Direct. D. Pulmo 1 I met Victoria THE WOMAN CAME toward at the table. She stood in front of the table I was sitting, outside a big grocery store. Itwas a hot day. The rays of the sun burned the skin. We breathed the hot air. Seemed we were on the eve of the hell. “Hi,” she said. “May I sit down?” “Sure,” I said. “My name is Victoria,” the woman introduced herself. She sat down on the chair.”David,” I said. She wore a white dress. She was pretty, blonde hair, and olive eyes. “I´M TIRED. I walked a lot this morning. So my legs hurt,” she said. “Put two pillows under your foots for twenty minutes when you are laying on the bed. II´ll bet you feel better,” I said. “I will. Thank you,” she said. People walking with theirs sweaty faces. For a short time we did not say anything. “Allright. I´m leaving,” she said, standing up. She looked at me.“See you around.” “See you,” I said. Before she left I asked hers cellphone number. SEVERAL DAYS had passed since met and we had not called each other. So I called her. “How are you?.” “I am fine. Thank you.” “I am glad to hear of you,” I said. WHO WAS SHE? She was pretty, blonde hair, strong sense of independence, and temper as hell that´s was Victoria. “IT´S all over,” I said Victoria. “I want to tell you the truth.” “I do not want to see you anymore.” “I am sorry.” I told her about my background. “Thank you for tell me the truth,” Victoria said. “You are a gentleman.” We became friends. THE FIRST time we met was at Starbucks coffee shop, in San Mateo. She looked pretty, well-dressed, beautiful smile, and fine manners. We enjoyed had a coffee and had a lot fun as well. “MY BUSINESS is slow,” she said. She started to cry. Since I met Victoria I had never asked hers making of living.