It’s been a year since I moved to Sintra, just before Christmas. With a gift list in my pocket, I went to discover the neighborhood stores. This story would be much more romantic if I had gone to a neighborhood store, but I ended up in a shopping center. The only establishment near my house is a gas station that has since closed.

I entered a bookstore, one of those that are part of a chain but whose name does not matter to be mentioned, and, while I was attentive to the news section, I feel a person approaching. “She hasn’t been here for a while”, says a girl who I tell from her sweater is an employee of the bookstore. “It must be someone else”, I reply embarrassedly, “It’s the first time I’ve come here”. A lady overhears the conversation and says to the girl “This girl is a singer, you must know her from there”. The girl, who until then was smiling, immediately changes her expression and replies in a harsh tone “No, I’m sure it’s from here”.

It wasn’t the first time this happened to me. When I was sixteen years old and participated in “Ídolos” a lot of people came to me asking if I had been in the Secondary School of Restelo, in the Gymnasium of Olivais or in the ballroom dances of Benfica. At that time I was very ashamed to tell them that they probably knew me from television. I just said no, that I hadn’t been to any of those places, which made them think of ten more options of scenarios in their lives where my face made sense. After a long time of this game I ended up saying through my teeth “I entered a television program”, to which most people replied “It’s not from there. I don’t watch television.” This pride of being caught in their confusion has always made me confused. My mother would also sometimes greet people from soap operas on the street because she thought she knew them personally. When she realized, she laughed at herself and closed the episode with a simple “What nonsense”.

The girl in the bookstore suffered from that same wounded pride. He turned his back and entered a door that I imagine is the warehouse.

Once the list of gifts was dispatched, I went to the cashier to pay and there it was waiting for me. He wasn’t answering, he was just waiting for me. I don’t know if she studied theater, but she said in a well-designed voice for all customers to hear: “You have already come to this store, yes, and I even remember the book you took”. I, who was beginning to find some amusement in that lack of control, asked “Oh yes, and what was it?”. “By chance,” she said even louder and now with a slight evil smile, “It was an erotic book.”

I never saw the girl in the bookstore again but I still go there very often. As for the erotic book, if I ever want to read one, I think I’m safer if I order it from the internet.