And it seemed to be a good day, it would be a perfect day, and it's almost annoyed to have to castrate his creative impulses, but the pretty wicker chair she had spotted before the bar of the Arrow last week certainly did not wait half an hour, then , dress summer, light sandals strung light, a touch of makeup, light, stairs swallowed the fly, laughing, hand in hand, the little breeze that made them a kiss on the way, light, scent heady souk which is already filled lungs at fifty yards away stand vinyls hand that smacked good return of psychedelic, old books horny just waiting to slice their delicate hands to live a new life, the cries of the showmen and the rustle of onlookers, the rattan chair who waited patiently and quietly in a corner which Juliet sat happily to take their usual cup of coffee at Bar Tabac, two euro miss, thank you, eighty cents per rod and seven euros and forty-nine of vegetables to prepare a salad, side by side, in its income small kitchenette which gradually fills with the smell of sour house dressing, my God, He prepares the dressing well, and God knows that this is not the least of his talents, he might even show him his hocus-pocus favorite after dinner, one where he manages to make her come just by touching her body trembling with hands of aesthetic, but no, there he is again seized his pen in a poor state of cabalistic signs to cover entire pages of a notebook dug under the bed and Juliet looks at him with a strange pantomime fun , head tilted to the side, she will leave him a break, anyway, and he is chewing on his ear by surprise a few minutes Later, when she tries to put the finishing touches on his last picture he admires the composition and vivid, he always loved what she did to him, and He is interested in something other than the columns of numbers of rare vulgarity, He is there, nearby, visibly upset by the resemblance of the portrait and the position suggestive of the young woman's table and the position of the languid young woman who painted the picture in which He would do well to take a whole bunch of other positions, and he slipped on the deck a blues record that he just bought, and extorted him one last orgasm in exchange for attentive listening to his last paragraph, panting, breathless, as troubled by the virtuosity of her writing that the obsessive precision of her caresses, bingo, banco, she wins both ways and began to think that she really very lucky to live one day as perfect, while the steeple of St. Michael rang again, not far away, above the tiles of slate district, darker, dense and menacing than ever . Juliette Montague on the elbow straightens, absently stroking his shaggy mop of dozing lover, approach her lips to his ear and whispers with any softness which she feels able, despite the urgency of the situation:
"It's five o'clock, my dear. You'd better go, my husband will not further delay ".
was really a perfect day.
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