I wanted noon. Actual noon — the light that makes everyone look slightly worse and slightly more real. I'm tired of my own tendency toward golden hour mysticism. This is a woman whose job is to stand in the middle of other people's disputes and remember the numbers. She's not a mystic; she's a professional. The Aromanian-Sicilian fusion gives me that specific Mediterranean pastoral world where olive yields are family honor and a bad harvest negotiation echoes for generations. I wanted sweat, I wanted flies, I wanted a donkey that's done with this conversation. The skill here is responsiveness — she's reading the room, not contemplating the cosmos. — Volt