I wanted a pretty name for the death. But I wanted a simple, easy, common name. I didn't want to call her Miss Death. Death, The Hour, Ankou, Sedna, Aita as in different mythologies. I really wanted a very Brazilian name, those like Josefa Silva, that made me feel sympathy for her, and not fear. Neither fear nor respect, because I didn't want to respect something that would take me from here to a magical world I didn't believe in, and therefore I didn't know anything about. I wanted a human name. A prosaic name: Seraphine. And Seraphine should be colorful too: no black veils wrapped around her thin body, bony hands gripping a tall scythe to pull me by the neck at departure as if I were a runaway chicken. Seraphine would be fat, chubby hands, red cheeks (from laughing), round brown eyes and a pointy caramel nose. Seraphine would wear a purple top hat, a long flame orange dress, moss green suede shoes. I would see her far away when she came to get me. There, I didn't have to fear a real, colorful person named Seraphine, who would come to meet me one day and take me out of here. I'd recognize her in a heartbeat, and I wouldn't have time to try to change her mind: Seraphine would be too charming for me not to want to go with her. The lively laugh, the warm colors, the seductive brown eyes. Seraphine would make me feel good.

I spent years waiting for Seraphine. At every corner, at every street crossed, at every sip of coffee sipped more willingly. With each orange cloth that passed before my eyes, a chill crept up my spine. I pressed my gaze for the other elements that would make Seraphine evident, but she was never there. Every loud, naked laugh, every fat hand full of creases, every green shoe. Seraphine has become the prince charming I've been waiting for every day. I couldn't work anymore, I couldn't live the joys of my days anymore. I didn't want to cross the streets anymore. I didn't want to sip my coffee anymore. Why didn't Seraphine want me? I shaped her, I created her, and she didn't want me. Every day she came to get someone; someone who happened to see her and hear her laugh, someone who felt the delicacy of her orange dress. But not me. Seraphine didn't want me. Tired of waiting for Seraphine, I went down to the main street. I waited to cross. As soon as I saw the bus around the corner, I crossed over so it couldn't stop. He didn't stop. I left. And still Seraphine didn't come to see me.