She stood slender and statuesque on the Seine, the barefoot and wrapped in a pretty dusty darkness rested on the wall, his clothes shredded crisp autumn air moving swollen and blue eyes, which were the only two blue dots nightlife in Paris, staring aseptically slow flowing river.
"Do not rush, my love." He said he, advancing with rapid strides, but elegant. He moved laundry in his coat, like a ghost, and raised in the air with his right hand trembling, the pledge of love that she mistakenly believed he had stolen.
"Here, love." He said, hugging the slender legs, pale as those of an ancient queen, from sheer stockings torn.
"Here, love." And she handed the crisp brown envelope, inside which a bottle of black glass that keeps the hopes of drinking from the collective imagination of the homeless Paris. She took the bag and carried it to her lips reddish; was about to remove the cap and drink, while he continued to shake their legs.
I remember from that distance, from the café where I sipped the last beer of the evening, they could look really, because of their remoteness or my opacity, poetic figures of vagabonds or bohemians and artists, not two drunken tourists at the end of a long tag.
I remember thinking "now goes", just as with his white teeth and little ones, remove the cork from the bottle and black, glancing in the car, toward the road where there was none but his want to be the scene of some highlight film glancing in the car bowed legs and thigh muscles contracted. Then he jumped up and immediately fell down, like a cloth or a dress stuck on a hanger.
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