And there I was sitting on a beautiful patio, watching the golden sunset and running my hand through his black glossy hair, idyllic. The sunset in Spain was idyllic, the life in France was a nightmare. After the sunset the time speed up, in a fraction of a second we were living in a quaint apartment in France and he was a tortured, seductive musician. Too seductive.
I woke up bathed in sunlight, alone in the bed of our small bedroom. Then I remembered, he had been gone for four days. He would return, tired, loving, sorry. I got up, walked down the street, I knew exactly where he was and that’s where I found him. Through the glass I saw him, handsome as ever, tilted hat over his eyes, playing his drums, playing the hours, the days away . . .
I hated him because I loved him. I stood there, looking through the window of the bar where he was rehearsing and I picked a rock from the floor and threw it to the glass. Then I took off and never saw him again.