"Then you have not read my manuscript?
-No.
I realize suddenly realize that Martin must think me an asshole, talk to me in such a moment. But as I am one of my main interests, I did not realize.
She puts her hair up with discomfort, and crosses her arms over her chest, looking at the ground between us. And I still do not know how to approach the problem.
Around us people are screaming about the soldiers lined up in a compact, hand the trigger of their guns, which block the boulevard. A few miles away, bombs shred the Haussmann buildings, but does not seem to worry anyone. You get used to everything.
I ask Martin why she wants to go home, expecting what she responds simply, "Because it's my home, asshole." But she told me she finally changed my mind. I look at Vincent, sitting on a sidewalk a few yards away, and asked him telepathically if Martine is real. The mustache does not understand what I'm saying, and I am sign me Sort this out myself.
Everything is always about timing. If I had arrived earlier, I could return to the capital before the evacuation, and if it had been before the girl of my dreams would I read the letters slipped under his door to tell him how point was stupid to be separated.
I think back to that copy of my manuscript that I have also slipped, and suddenly regretted more than any of them have left. I should fuck me but a little voice whispers that I am able to write better, and that this novel will leave a poor reflection on me. And god knows I like to talk well of me.
-I can not do better, I say.
Martine looks up in surprise. She probe a few moments, and places his hand on my beard. I want to escape by running, or to reduce me to ashes. I would like to say a bunch of stuff, do a bunch of stuff, but the truth is that I still stand there like an acorn, and that my inertia is such that I will not move as nothing will shake me .
"I'll go," she tells me.
"I think I'll stay here. I have no choice.
-You 're the ones who can always do better.
When she said that I feel even smaller than usual. The city and I shudder in unison. My shoulders were a blip, and buildings tremble on their foundations. Some crumble. The moment passes like a dream, like a small earthquake that is perceptible with seismographs. A building closer than the other breaks her mouth, and a kind of breath caressed our bodies, and makes the hair fluttering Martine.
The timing is bad, always. I'll stay here and watch the bombs fall, waiting to be buried, crying like a child. I cry so hard that we should treat me then. Martine then come visit me, and I shall die in his arms. And it will be enough, because in any way I can not do better.
I take her in my arms, and she emerges, explaining that this is not a good idea. I know very well what she is doing: She is leaving me, again. In a few minutes I'm all alone and I will have more strength.
She passes her hand over my face, as she always does, and I want to tear his arm. I point out how our relationship has been a long evolution towards Platonism, and she asks me blankly why I always lock the important moments.
"I am ...
In saying this, I seek the answer in my head, without success. I look at her face to burn in my memory even though I know very well that the time will erase.
The soil crumbles beneath me, is pulverized and dispersed with the wind. I step aside, then two, but wherever I set foot in the bitumen from the ashes.
I return to province, "said Martine. I'll be back when it is subdued.
-I 'm afraid it will not calm down.
-Be not afraid.
I can endure more commonplace. It is like two cons to look in the eye, spouting niceties, so we keep the most important to us.
-I really afraid it will not calm down.
She smiled and advised me to keep the beard because it suits me well. She kissed me one last time, more to make peace with me from envy. She turns back and walks away to get lost in the crowd of refugees.
buildings do not end up shattered. The sound of bombs getting closer, and the military to argue us back. The ground continues to dissolve under my feet, and when I'll sit on a bench, he quietly ablaze, consumed by small green flames.
Vincent comes to join me, wearing her two large sports bags. He explained it will follow me no farther, and gives me a billion reasons are all legitimate. I do not even listen because deep down I know why he did not accompany me.
I wonder if I'll really go to plan B, so that nothing compels me. I replied that I only just beginning to understand why I do all that, and this time I have to go after things.
He sighs, and opens one of his bags. It leaves many treasures from his collection, like a suit and a razor. I thanked him politely, and we walk up public toilets that were spared the looting. During
the mustache stands watch, I shave my beard, no foam, and cut myself several times. Then I put on a shirt, and m'escrime minutes to tie a bow tie, while Vincent's banging at the door to get me to hurry. He told me that the military still progressing, and the refugees begin to flee too.
I spend pants, a jacket, and observes my image in the mirror. For the first time, I do not recognize Irving Rutherford. I do not recognize myself either. I see before me a strange person and determined that a reassuring smile. The person I am today.
When I go out, Vincent also noticed. We're in the arms we dare not touch, like two strangers. He tells me he has one last gift for me.
He leaves his bag a gleaming sword, the pommel inlaid with precious stones. He hands it to me, and by entering I am surprised to find it too lightly. I give a few blows with the wind cons and see how much she is handy. I passed my finger over the edge, and drops of blood beading line perfectly drawn that appeared on my skin.
Vincent looks down shamefully when I asked about the provenance of the object. He mumbles something that I do not understand, and growls when I ask him to repeat.
... "She starts there. It was forged in secret in the sacred mountain of Helgafell by dwarves.
-Really?
-It is made of an alloy that is lightweight and indestructible. Nothing can break. And I think that the jewels on the hilt are sacred stones. I can not do better.
He swallowed painfully, as if about to vomit. I know how much it was hard for him to utter these words. His pragmatism has taken quite a blow, and I'm afraid he wants for it. But we share
a cordial handshake, without rancor or regret. It gives me a sleeve for my new sword, and wishes me good luck with an air sincere.
I find nothing to say deep, "he apologizes.
"It's okay.
-fuck.
I glue a small slap on the cheek, and a second attempt that I ducked. He turns and takes its own course. I begin to hope to see him again someday.
I put my sword in my scabbard, and turn around to admire Paris. It is as if the city had a thousand years old today. Everything is crumbling around me because I am unable to beautify the world around me.
I'm going to meet the military column, which continues to push the people. I came across a young soldier, pointing his gun at me, ordering me to turn back.
"You know who I am? "I said.
I stared a few seconds, and his eyebrows move back and forth on his forehead. He finally let me pass, and I do not know if it's because he believes recognized me, or because he was afraid to look like a fool by asking a supervisor.
The streets are clear as ever. We see that the tanks have already moved to traces of caterpillars on the ground and the crushed cars. Smoke from burning buildings is complete shadows on the ground and hides the sun.
I tell myself it's just a bad time to pass.
Note: Making any less sentimental
Soon: Single track (1)
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