It seems that I'm worldly. This name stuck with me since I arrived in Paris. What surprises me greatly, moreover, even today. Small example of the type I was introverted, neat, but in his world. A bit temperamental, even on edges. I was not what one might call the most popular type of my class, not really up to those who leave no time either. I remember when at school my parents offered me permission to midnight, I told them: "why? I do not go ..."
Things have changed now, but I do not understand how. I did not really feel myself transformed. Yet, undoubtedly, I go out more. Some might say that I go too. Yet I'm still a homebody. I like to get in my den, or spend evenings alone, reading a book, to music, to glandouiller on my computer, write, watch a few series or share my feelings on some particularly exciting social network.
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was a quiet day. A little strange perhaps. He was in a trance. There was a tear. Tenuous, but present. There was this goodbye, inevitable, terrible, sad to die. Two years had passed now since she had gone back to his hometown. Two years have to diffuse it as news. He thought it perfectly accommodating, and he now understands that this was not the case.
There was this encounter, beautiful, a little crazy, tactile, sensual even, but unequivocal. In short a beautiful friendship.
And then there was this one night away under the effects of alcohol, without real control.
She was forbidden. Be the lover had never bothered, but it was her. He could not make him that. And yet there were so many want it. He had managed to regroup, to say no. She had wanted, of course, but the passage of time, thanked him. They were fair play towards each other. It was the cement this relationship.
One day, however, she was gone. Without really prevent, without really admits that it bothered him, the same gnawing. It was scarcely had they remained in contact. When they wrote to each other, their letters were always passionate, brief. As if to reassure, make sure that somewhere, someone thought of them. They had managed to keep this fragile part of reciprocity, buried under the weight of the distance.
But as time went on, the exchanges became more and more rare. Perhaps he had forgotten.
And now, two years later, she announced she was getting over Paris, and it would have been pleased that they see themselves. Without realizing it, his heart rate was slightly accelerated.
Hardly had they reviewed it all again. Everything seemed simple, fluid, funny. They met at last. A rediscovery of each other, with laughter, confessions, a connivance that neither time nor distance had managed to enter. Afternoon turned into evening, then night, and then he promised to escort to the station. She wanted him too. It was reassuring.
Yet there was a change. Heavy. She had met someone, his life was wonderful, and she beamed. Someone who really mattered to her was a first.
Later that night, lying on the bed of their host improvised, his head resting against his shoulder, listening to the frenzied arrhythmia in his heart that the sick smell ethyl rendered even more chaotic through successive layers his clothes 100% cotton washable at 60 º , he had simply asked:
"Between us two years ago, if I dared tell you that you mean to me, you'll be gone ?
What she had just said these features sharp, sad and sweet, but terribly remote:
"No ... No, certainly not."
It would clearly have preferred not to hear the answer that evening. Do not know. Ignorance is not it more comfortable than the truth when it strengthens you the idea that your life could be quite different? Already he was angry. Already, he got up, already, he fled. Deaf guilt and regret were the implied fair price to pay as punishment for a leisured temerity. He returned home, only slightly heavier than when he was gone.
A little swagger, a little connement, he told her she could care for his cynicism. She smiled. World of shit.
He was escorted to the station. It looked as clueless as him. But she left him to something that matched. She had found a semblance of happiness for a time at least. And for once, for the first time perhaps, he was jealous.
Then he was out. In the evening, accompanied by an even hallucinatory, both dressed in black, determined to clear his head. What other perspective was he? Certainly not to languish in his corner, no where Vie was there. And it was anyway more of a kind. Black jacket, black pants, vest over a shirt crossed anthracite, striped tie and dark purple, silver rings attached to the handle of the cane he had decided to bring with him while his accomplice was wearing leather pants to die for a Hell's Angel, falling on a sweater neckline impressive as its top seemed hell-bent on giving it an impish pout darker than the hair ebony, let's be honest: they had a certain style. And they complemented each other well. At least, that is what kept him Môme ensure, even if "confidence" was not really the phrase that characterized the most.
Land known, familiar face, meetings, compliments, and rapid exchange on any anything, seduction summary of everything that crosses its path, men and women: the kind of perfect night to cheer themselves up.
And amidst all this fevered excitement, this cacophony of brutal, in the social arena, this battle of influences, made alliances and tacit domination, comes this little downtime , one where gestures are frozen, where things seem to happen in slow motion, like in the movies, with a little hazy effect that saturates the contrasts, the small effect kitschouille well disgusting that makes you want to vomit. He folded unintentionally. A look incredible. He knew it not. it passed before clumsily trying to create a semblance of reaction. She did not manifest. He was nonplussed. The look would have it was misleading?
He walked around the bar. To order initially. And then he saw her again. She seemed lost. It was something indefinable, a glimmer of intelligence crossbred effrontery, and seemed, at the same time, have something very fragile. Enough to melt immediately until the last of his defenses. As if she had needed it.
The waitress nodded three times, he heeded them not at all. It mattered little. He could not tear his eyes from her. Nor when launched, on several occasions, a furtive glance in his direction. She seemed frightened. To his credit, he stared at her, and he himself had this impression: that of being a predator to prey offered. Feeling relatively new and terribly exciting. She took his glass, which should never happen, settled, and then returned to drown in the mass. He had lost. He had finally deigned to wave the waitress who had the indecency to withdraw its reverie.
I am still convinced that there is a God of infinite clemency which gives you a little boost when needed. He appeared tonight to our protagonist in the guise of a mutual friend.
Once he was able to hire a semblance of conversation with the beautiful girl, a day of frustration seemed to drain out through his vocal cords which, when not hurt, had the kindness to show their presence and their usefulness by providing logorrhea whose words inspired, laid end to end, had the surprising feature of kindly create coherent sentences, although sometimes relatively removed. For beautiful, incredible by itself, would I be tempted said the girl had laughed at feline eyes. He had laughed together without really knowing why.
They had gone to dinner in a Greek or Turkish, or ultimately mattered little dubious origin of the fatty meat that their stomachs had tried to assimilate this evening. She was picked up again. They were to meet again two days later. To eat ice cream, something like that. Unlikely. And it still would not believe the grip had been mutual. Had he would do right?
He returned that night, alone, again. But unlike yesterday, it was quieter. Almost serene. reassured anyway. She had managed to completely remove its current issues. Finally, the only thing that mattered now was: how did he arrange for this pretty young woman agrees to have a drink with him?
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