For the last time. The limousine comes to a halt across the pavement, the door slams and, instead of going to open Gabrielle’s, Jean-Charles becomes absorbed in a bed of begonias, a pallid spot on the already yellow lawns on rue des Bouleaux where a single eponymous birch ...
Despite the fact, Vitalie, that as I die I am thinking of nothing else. In a fourth-floor apartment in Laval, between two shopping centres, we’d have formed a ball of rosy pink and rose in a big square bed, the sheets would have been canvas and harsh to your skin, my words gentle. And we’d have b...
She is thin and glaucous, the hem of her gown droops around her ankles, stops at white stockings in low-cut ivory shoes. Rayon over nylon over satin, thinks Marie, an inventory of poverty; she looks for the bridegroom and finds behind the crinolines a little man squeezed into a powder-blue suit, ...