Dragica froze with a cup at her mouth.

Dragica sat at a coal-lit table in her favorite café on Strahinjića Bana, lazily stirring a cooling macchiato. She was wearing a new dress, bought with her last dinars before the season, and she was absolutely certain of her irresistible reflection in the shop window. Until that moment, the Belgrade asphalt had seemed almost like a catwalk to her, and her own confidence bulletproof.

But then they passed by her table.

Girlfriends: Anya and Milica
The two girls appeared suddenly, as if they had stepped out of the pages of a glossy magazine that had accidentally confused the Serbian capital with Milan.

Anya was the epitome of daring chic: tall, with perfect olive skin and a slightly careless wavy chestnut hairdo. She wore a stylish oversized blazer over a silk top and chunky biker boots that accentuated her graceful legs in a strange yet incredibly alluring way.

Militsa walked beside her, radiating a sunny, soft magnetism. A tanned blonde with a dazzling smile, she wore a light, flowing sundress the color of baked milk, which fluttered in the breeze, revealing her perfect tan.

They stopped at a nearby table, laughing at some joke. Their laughter wasn't loud or vulgar—it was the velvety, confident laughter of women who know the world is theirs and don't doubt it for a second.

Dragica froze, her cup at her lips.

Body language: No stiffness, not a single fidgety movement. They moved as if every moment of their lives were being filmed in slow motion.

The men at the neighboring tables instantly forgot about their phones and newspapers. The waiter carrying a tray of rakia nearly tripped as he watched them go. But most importantly, the girlfriends didn't even glance around for approval. They couldn't care less who was looking at them, because they were enjoying each other's company.

I slowly lowered my cup back onto the saucer. Its mirror-like "perfection" suddenly seemed dull and cardboard-like to her. She looked at her overly high heels, which were already making her feet tired, at her tightly fastened handbag, and at her own tense face.

She was truly a long way from those very girlfriends - a whole abyss of confidence, inner freedom and that very real, unforced sex appeal that you can’t buy in any boutique in Belgrade.

Tell me, have you ever had this happen?