She shook my hand boyishly, and the backpack fell off hershoulder, heavy. Where to? She blew her bangs from her eyes and the air turned green. To Paris. I’m becoming a painter. The trees rush past the train, I would count them as I did in my childhood, but instead I look at her in my attic in Montmartre, in my loose T-shirt, on which she wipes her brushes, while she shouts I love you, boy, and …
Stiripesurse.ro
