1 I
He walked through the market stalls, looked around looking for what he had been going there for a couple of months, once a week once a week.
He remembered when at first he used to go there every morning, then he understood he was there only at Friday and then he had made it clear that he would always have an date with fate on Friday morning.
Crazy on his part, stay and watch from afar, following her and dreaming that he can talk to her.
He studied her, he understood that she preferred strawberries to plums, but even more so cherries, he discovered that she did not like fabrics of too dark colors, she loved the colours of spring and the laces, she loved hats and always had a different one, unfortunately everyone cover her face too much, she was golden of macarons, she preferred the classic ones, she never refused a carinery or a compliment, but she knew she was getting them, she was elegant and refined in every aspect, always stopped in the flower counter to smell the intense perfume of roses and then she wasted a lot of time between new books, betting she loved the smell of new printing pages.
He loved her. He was sure. Even if he had never spoken to her, even if he had never really seen her face properly befor. But what did it matter? He knew he loved her.
When he saw her by the colourful flowers, he dreamy sigh. He had found her that morning.
He thought about how lucky those tulips were, to which she was paying her attention by caressing their petals, with those thin fingers with a graceful touch and snow-white skin.
God, he was really freaked out about that woman.
From his hat he could see a black lock of hair from his hat and dreamed of curling it in a mischievous encounter of glaces.
His angel.
That's what he called her, since she obviously didn't have a name to hold on to.
He daydreamed that he could wake up every morning at her side and see her asleep while, perhaps, she was dreaming about him. She would have been elegant even in sleep.
He would have done nothing but ennoble all her behavior. Spread praise on every aspect. And maybe while he was staring at her sleeping, he would write her love letters, poems imbued with emotion and make fun of some of them, because he was a fool in love.
He imagined her with the first rays of the sun to wet her face and the white sheets that delicate caressed her belly, perhaps left bare after an intense night.
He would have even changed for her, he would not have been the usual fool, because he deserved better and he would never have second thoughts and every stories he had had he would have buried them to hide them from her, it didn't matter if the other women he had made his own would have prayed for his death.
He wanted to know what she was always thinking, in every moment, if she smiled to shield herself from the world, if that shield then led her to reject company.
The first time he had glimpsed her red lips he felt something shaking at the middle of his stomach. Foolishly, from that moment, in every woman who owned in the nights he devoted his vices, he searched that colour on their lips, but that lady was different, nobody could be compared to her. Alone she was worth a hundred times all her achievements together. And, not to brag, they were a lot. In his world of easy costumes he was searching for her, who was in another level, in another class.
Should he have paid in tatters of soul or pieces of heart for it?
He prayed, as usual, to be noticed by her, to be benedict from her look, to understand their colour. He knew they were beautiful, his heart told them. But which colour? Blue as the heavenly time? Perhaps because of the gift that God had given her to the world, maybe it advanced him a piece of sky. Brown like the earth from which sprouts and flowers and fruits feed the humanity? Or maybe green like the immense valleys of the Provence, like the spring leafs that gives oxygen for life.
Which colour would have coloured his heart?
And she was still there, in his dreams, beautiful and asleep, while he was protecting her from the evils of the world, as he looked at her and realized he was falling in love more and more.
He would got crazy for this woman, he wanted her in any cost and he couldn't just ignore it. He didn't feel any limits for that feeling.
He continued following her until the usual book counter. She had chosen a poetry collection and turned it around in her hands before opening it and take look inside.
That day, he had decided to be brave, to move forward at least one step. He didn't care if his friend told him to stay away from her, he didn't care if the social rank shared them like a huge crevaccio, he didn't care to risk getting hurt himself.
Fearlessly he passed by her side and, among the crowd, pretended to collide with her mistakenly, in doing so he slipped the book out of her hand. He turned around and regretted.
<< Forgive me.>> He said bending down to pick up the fallen object.
He didn't expect to find himself in heaven just standing up.
The sky...
His heart was painted blue.
He was enchanted and, while the sweet smell of the woman intoxicated his senses, he was blessed with that divine vision.
The skin looked like silk, the slightly reddened cheeks, the black chokes of a hidden hair were slightly moved by the wind.
He realized that it was as she had always wanted it. Deep down, whatever it was, he wanted her exactly how she was.
He imagined in the sheets of a bed that was unshaken to enjoy those intense colors and that intoxicating perfume.
Which smell could love have with her? Definitely pungent and passionate. Maybe if roses.
She was an angel, but paradoxically, in his most hidden fantasies, her surrounded him with passion.
<< Don't worry. >>
He smiled. Sweet and delicate.
He was always more inebetic.
<< You dropped this.>> He handed her the book.
<< Oh, thank you. >>
In taking it from their hands he made them touch it between their fingers and he is beaten by a sweet treamor.
He imagined her, involuntarily, that skin, he felt it flowing through her hands that impatient, caressed the body.
All of Paris would have spoken about them, their eternal love.
<< Baudelaire, good choice. >> He tried to talk to her.
<< Do You know him? >>
The woman seemed embarrassed, maybe from her interlocutor's little eye look.
<< I find it extremely brilliant in his aphorisms. >> He managed to keep control of his voice.
<< Not many people see it that way. >>
<< It's a tormented soul, it's normal to be underestimated. >> He turned his back on and, with fake security, he started looking at the stall waiting for her to continue the speech.
<< Speak as if he knows tormented souls. >> Even the brunette followed its example, but kept looking at it with the tail of his eye.
That young man was very curious and, for his boring, boring, boring life, he felt like he was breathing fresh air.
I know something about that. > Involuntarily smiled.
<< And you? Do you find the tormented souls curious? >> Turned back to look at her.
At that question the young man raised his face and looked at the boy's eyes. They looked at her like they were looking for a secret inside her soul. She felt terribly naked without her usual armor protecting her feelings.
He turned quickly and went back to cover his face better.
<< I really have to go. See you again. >>
She went fast, so the boy didn't have time to block her or say goodbye.
<< Every Friday, m'lady. >> I'll whisper between myself.
It was evening, the day had passed in a flash, even though it had risked a lot this time. Luckily, his friend Nino was saving his ass. He was too distracted thinking about her, so much he was about to get himself killed.
He couldn't make these mistakes.
He drank another glass of cheap wine. It tasted like a cap, but it was useful to the cause. Deep down, he never drank for the taste.
He thought of his breath that morning, his heart accelerated to see her smile at him.
He grabbed the neck of the bottle again and thought that life had been gripped in a choking bite, making him dirty and bluished his skin once again.
Lie down on the ground asked God who would stand by his side.
He was expecting him the usual night, a continuous déjà vu in his life, a pain he knew but he never made him cry anymore.
One day, one day had lasted a year. The sky was cloudy and the streets full of mud, the priest almost intimidated a sermon he wouldn't see. He ran away.
He couldn't handle that stage, so he preferred loneliness. He remembered the stinging cold that pinched his cheeks and freezing his heart. Inside he had started building his own safe house.
He had no words, no more for himself and no more for others.
His little Rose died in his powerless arms. She wasn't there with him anymore. All he had left was a trivial memory of a brother too busy to spend time together.
So why would he pray to a God now? What life did he give him? A life had taken it and left injuries that couldn't close.
He took his family, all of it.
Maybe it was the lack of someone to turn to who had brought him to have all that ego. He grew up alone.
She was wondering if little Rose saw him, she knew she wasn't like she wanted him, but life kicked him, and then you can only decide whether to strengthen yourself or let you weaken. And now he cried like a kid, but he fought like a warrior.
He still drank. More.
He closed his eyes and in front of him he imagined this morning's smile, red lips like cherries and pink cheeks like peach flowers, today he had managed to live a little more. It was on Friday, he couldn't feel it, maybe because he was lighting up by his light, maybe because the memory of her sewing up shreds of her soul.
But for every happy memory, there was one ready to knock it down. Like nights waiting in front of those soup dishes that got colder and colder. Then he finally stopped waiting. He only had one to ask. Parents' explanation about their abandonment. Why didn't they show up all the time?
Not even a goodbye.
He ran out of bottle.
<< Darling, you should leave that glass and put your lips on me. >>
She recognized Agnés's voice, raised her head and saw her as malicious as ever.
She was beautiful, beautiful and sexual, the perfect muse of a cursed poet, the woman everyone would like to have tried at least once.
Her eyes betrayed her dreams, so that he knew what she expected from him. He wouldn't let you down.
She stood up to the ruined wooden counter and came so close to her back. He looked at her face and saw nothing but desire. He chinessed her hips and kissed her with transportation, unworthy, for a public place.
<< Let's go upstairs, Adrien. >>
He let her drag her up the stairs that crawled at every step of their way into the usual room.
She pushed him to the bed to put him in and he enjoyed the scene of her slowly stripping.
For Agnés it was exciting to die to have those green eyes on her looking at her with desire and impatience, she would strip so sexually just to get that craving look on her self more and more.
...
The blond let himself go by his side, the girl smiled happy. Both were satisfied.
Agnés got up to get the dirt off her and Adrien watched her walk naked through the room.
<< You know we're not done, right, sweetie?>> He looked at her with a look that left very little to the imagination and a smart smile that was returned,
<< I was hoping.>> He went back to his bed and laid his head in his chest.
<< How's Amélie?>> Churches by carrying his arm around the girl's back.
<< You know how she's always ready to minimize, but I think thanks to the medicine you brought us improved.>> Honest smile.
<< I'm glad. Tell her I'll come by and see her, maybe I'll bring her a present.>>
<< I think she's got a crush on you.>> Said tenderly enjoyed.
<< Then you don't want to let her know I'm fucking her sister.>> He smiled funny and posed it on top, ready to start again.
