As I was going back home, I turned right into Rue des Archives and entered rue Pastourelle.
Or rather, I let the street enter me, feeding my eyes with things.
There are strong buildings and buildings battered by time, high windows and secret gardens.
Then I came across two men’s shoes, maybe size 9.5, left there like their last steps.
I stopped and looked at them.
I am never moved by the outcome of abandon, but by the accomplished act
and the end of a path.
I wondered who had left them there and why.
Was it haste? Fury? An escape?
Those white loafers, likely to belong to a nostalgic of Saint-Tropez,
were lying there, suspended motionless in a ghostly step, with a sad end-of-the-cruise air.
She loved him passionately, he loved her too.
They had sex against 12, rue Pastourelle with undeniable strength and shifting acquiescence, without hesitation.
And then, smoothing her dress on her thighs, she looks down and what does she see?
He’s wearing a pair of boat loafers!
Oh, she thinks recanting her orgasm, I wish I didn’t come like that with a man who’s wearing white loafers!
The man looks at her and gently brushes a lock of wet hair from her forehead, immediately understanding.
As the bells strike twelve, he suddenly becomes torn and confused.
He scurries in the night and, to show her that you can change a fairy-tale’s ending, he loses
as much as two slippers.
Like that, at her feet.