The mirror in the cramped dressing room was cracked, but it still reflected Alice’s excitement. She was eighteen, wearing a dress the color of a bruised plum, and applying a lipstick that was much too loud for her face.
Alice looked at him, and for a second, the bravado faded. She saw the deep lines on his face—the map of a man who had been through the mill himself. "But I have to see for myself," she whispered.
"You think you’re going toward love," Jorge continued, his voice trembling slightly. "But every kiss you give away tonight to a stranger will take a piece of your soul that you can never buy back. You’ll wake up one day, and you won’t recognize the woman in that glass. You’ll be just another grain of wheat the mill has crushed." O Mundo Г‰ Um Moinho
"Listen to me for just a moment," he said. "I know that look. It’s a fever. You think the lights of the city are stars, but they are just lamps that burn out by dawn."
Jorge nodded sadly. He stood up and reached into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills—his earnings from the day. He pressed them into her hand. The mirror in the cramped dressing room was
"I am afraid for you ," he replied. "The world is a mill, Alice. O mundo é um moinho. It doesn't care if you are beautiful or if your heart is pure. It just turns. It grinds your dreams into dust before you even realize you’ve been used."
Jorge stepped into the room. He didn’t try to grab her arm or block the door. Instead, he sat on the edge of her bed. She saw the deep lines on his face—the
"Alice," he said softly. His voice sounded like dry leaves. "You’re going to the Lapa arches tonight?"
