Authors: Michel Farnac
Ten
days...
a
hundred
years
of
solitude.
Ten
days
to
be
measured
in
months.
But
of
course
nothing
compared
to
how
long
it
took
for
us
to
find
each
other.
We
shall
speak
in
a
few
minutes
(I
will
call
you),
but
since
you
will
be
rereading
this
message
thereafter,
these
words
will
be
my
last
before
you
are
temporarily
whisked
away
to
distant
climes.
I
would
leave
you
with
a
series
of
sketches
of
stories
to
come.
A
sampler
if
you
will.
You
see,
ours
is
not
a
linear
encounter.
The
very
way
in
which
we
communicate
fragments
time
to
be
rearranged
as
in
a
kaleidoscope,
and
from
our
encounter
there
are
many
paths
that
you
can
follow
to
tomorrow,
depending
on
which
e-‐mails
you
reread,
which
stories,
in
which
sequence...
So
it
is
also
for
me
looking
forward.
There
many
stories
to
be
told,
some
which
cannot
follow
each
other,
some
that
can
repeat
at
different
times.
Some
begin
now,
most
later,
and
some,
of
course,
have
already
begun.
Here
then
are
some
fragments
of
narratives
to
come,
pieces
from
different
puzzles
put
together
to
form
a
different
kind
of
image...
...
there
are
few
people
in
the
theatre
and
of
course
none
in
the
second
row
where
we
sit.
As
the
plot
of
the
'chick-‐flick'
takes
off
in
earnest,
I
suddenly
plunge
into
the
space
between
your
seat
and
the
back
of
the
seat
in
front
of
it.
I
reach
under
your
skirt
and
pull
down
your
panties.
Pretty
soon
you
understand
that
the
leather
glove
I
handed
you
earlier
is
simply
something
to
bite
on
and
stifle
the
sound,
a
small
courtesy
to
the
other
moviegoers.
Hugh
Grant
is
being
witty
on
screen,
and
so
am
I,
between
your
legs...
...
late
evening,
returning
to
our
room
in
the
hotel
after
a
nice
dinner,
but
just
before
the
elevator
reaches
our
floor
I
hit
the
'stop'
switch
and
the
cabin
halts
just
before
the
doors
were
to
open.
Below
us
the
nearly
empty
mezzanine
faintly
resonates
of
the
music
of
the
lounge
piano
next
to
the
bar,
in
the
distance
the
faint
lights
of
other
elevators
lazily
climbing
up
and
down
the
walls
of
the
indoor
courtyard
leading
to
the
upper
floors.
Safely
suspended
in
the
air,
I
push
you
against
the
glass,
lift
your
skirt
and
take
you
from
behind,
unbeknownst
to
the
people
far
below...
...
ten
short
contacts
with
your
skin,
just
strategically
placed.
The
point
of
the
blindfold
is
to
increase
the
intensity
of
the
sensations
by
making
them
unpredictable.
The
goal
is
to
see
how
still
you
stay
throughout
the
exercise...
...
in
a
few
minutes,
it
will
suddenly
get
a
little
cooler
as
it
always
does
right
after
sundown,
and
I
will
put
my
jacket
on
your
shoulders
as
we
head
back,
but
for
now
you
seem
content
with
the
warmth
of
my
arms
as
we
watch
the
setting
sun
over
the
Ocean...
...
the
trick
is
timing:
getting
past
the
sales
clerk
when
she
is
busy
so
that
she
doesn't
notice
that
you
are
entering
the
cabin
where
I
already
am.
After
that,
everyone
expects
you
to
undress
and
to
twist
around
in
a
tight
space,
so
as
long
as
we
keep
the
volume
low...
and
if
you
let
out
a
yelp,
I'll
just
say
something
nasty
like
"I
told
you
to
try
a
size
10!"
and
wait
to
hear
the
other
customers
chuckle...
...
it
is
one
of
the
few
spots
of
shade
on
the
trail,
which
in
this
heat
is
a
blessing.
We
sit
in
the
dirt
for
a
couple
of
minutes,
talking,
just
holding
hands.
The
scenery
is
amazing
and
known
of
so
few
of
the
millions
who
live
so
close
to
it.
Silence
overtakes
us
as
we
stare
at
a
distant
pair
of
hawks
gliding
their
way
high
above
the
valley
floor
and
our
smiles
say
more
than
our
words
ever
could...
But
it
is
late
and
I
must
bring
this
reverie
to
a
close.
I
hope
that
these
'six
easy
pieces'
will
be
enough
to
last
you
for
a
few
days.
It
is
mostly
when
I
take
a
brake
during
the
day
that
I
find
myself
thinking
of
you,
and
often
I
feel
a
sudden
pulse
in
my
phallus
which
must
be
contained,
and
I
feel
good.
Yours,
Michel”
She
brought
a
printout
of
the
email
with
her
on
vacation
and
secretly
reread
it
every
day,
wondering
what
would
await
her
upon
return,
already
beginning
to
flesh
out
in
her
mind
some
of
the
places
and
scenes
he
had
sketched.
The
only
thing
she
knew
to
expect
was
surprise
and
delight.
“So
we
walk
over
to
the
main
drag
in
town
for
a
bite
to
eat
(I
mean
besides
that
and
sex,
what
is
there
for
us
to
do,
really?
Oh
yeah,
well,
sleep
and
talk)
and
there
are
a
few
of
those
large
clothes
stores,
the
bohemian
bourgeois
post-‐Gap
chain
retailers
that
call
themselves
outfitters
or
such.
I
pull
you
into
one
of
those
stores
and
as
we
appear
to
peruse
the
meager
collection
of
perfumes
(you
know,
I’m
ready
to
bet
that
nº5
would
be
great
on
you…),
I
give
you
a
few
quick
instructions
on
what
to
do
next.
We
both
go
to
our
proper
sections
of
the
store
and
grab
a
couple
of
items,
then
head
to
the
dressing
rooms.
As
I
have
explained
to
you
the
trick
is
timing:
getting
past
the
sales
clerk
when
she
is
busy
so
that
she
doesn't
notice
that
you
are
entering
the
cabin
where
I
already
am.
After
that,
everyone
expects
you
to
undress
and
to
twist
around
in
a
tight
space,
so
as
long
as
we
keep
the
volume
low...
and
if
you
let
out
a
yelp,
I'll
just
say
something
nasty
like
"I
told
you
to
try
a
size
10!"
and
wait
to
hear
the
other
customers
chuckle.
You
take
off
your
blouse
and
quickly
go
down
on
me.
A
few
quick
motions
and
I
am
lubed
up
enough.
You
get
up,
turn
around
and
brace
yourself
against
the
cabin
wall.
I
hastily
pull
up
your
skirt,
lest
your
saliva
dry,
and
unceremoniously
pole
my
phallus
into
your
quite
wet
vagina.
One
hand
on
your
shoulder,
I
move
in
you
at
the
same
rhythm
my
heart
is
racing,
my
other
hand
stuck
between
us
to
dampen
the
sound.
Soon
enough
my
seed
pour
into
you
as
I
squeeze
your
breasts
in
my
shaking
hands.
I
clench
my
teeth
to
deprive
my
body
of
the
true
glory
of
my
pleasure,
thus
minimizing
the
noise
and
my
recovery
time.
A
fleeting
moment
I
take
you,
close
to
others
Yet
they
do
not
know…
Yours
truly,
She
told
him
of
her
strong
response
to
the
sense
of
place
that
he
instilled
in
his
narratives
and
it
made
him
blush.
He
told
her
that
whenever
he
imagined
the
two
of
them
together,
it
simply
emerged
as
a
necessity
for
him
to
describe
where
they
were
because
of
how
palpable
it
always
felt,
almost
to
the
point
of
distraction.
“Dearest
Catherine,
it's
funny
the
way
the
mind
works
(well
mine
at
least...).
I
find
myself
right
now,
as
has
happened
before,
struggling
to
figure
out
where
something
happens.
We
are
next
to
each
other,
holding
hands,
fingers
interlocked.
The
only
indications
I
have
of
place
are
that
we
are
next
to
a
lake,
perhaps
overlooking
it
from
a
bluff
(Switzerland?).
We
are
leaning
forward
against
a
railing,
a
wooden
balustrade
maybe
(Spain?).
It
is
dusk
and
the
air
is
cooling
off
but
still
quite
warm,
a
summer
evening
no
doubt.
I
slide
behind
you,
hands
crossing
on
your
belly,
chin
on
your
shoulder
holding
you
tight
for
a
minute.
You
realize
suddenly
that
the
touch
of
my
fingers
feels
so
immediate
because
it
is
actually
against
you
skin:
my
hand
has
made
its
way
inside
your
shirt.
My
fingers
barely
brush
against
your
skin
in
unpredictable
motions
like
ancient
patterns
on
your
skin,
gliding
their
way
between
fabric
and
skin,
covering
the
relief
and
curves
of
the
entire
surface
of
your
left
side.
My
hand
is
warm
and
its
touch
so
familiar
to
you.
In
a
final
motion,
my
had
settles
on
your
belly
for
a
minute,
flat
above
your
navel.
The
hand
leaves,
gently
refastening
what
buttons
it
undid
to
come
there,
and
resumes
its
conversation
with
your
hand
and
fingers.
But...
where
is
this
place?