Russian Dolls
They had met at a jazz concerto, in the suburbs St. Louis. They still had music to the ears, it could not end so abruptly. Then they went home, it was just next door. They listened to the vinyls Chloe sipping cognac.
He wanted, she wanted too. He was alone, she was not pretty.
And then when Charlie woke up, he began a long time to realize he was not home, but in a strange bed, smelling of lavender and a brass saxophone. He turned to Chloe. She had a completely different face to the light, which pierced the shutters lazily. His hair was blond brassy and framed an oval face, perfect. His lips stretched into a very rosy smile frozen and shaken by sleep. His eyelids were moving translucent fringe of his eyelashes. Charlie could tell he was hiding two globes curious, green bottle. From his temple to his chin digging the mark of the pillow. Adorable.
It was perhaps not so trivial after all.
Quietly, he raised himself on his elbow and threw a glance at the bedside. Under the lamp Rococo lay a copy of One Hundred Years of loneliness. The salon was
full of old books smelled of dust and surrounded by photographs of small wooden frames. Pieces of life.
Finally, he longed to know, that Chloe. He had planned to slip away, without leaving his number, as usual. But a girl named Chloe, like the song Ellington, how can it be like all the others, eh?
So good. Everyone can make mistakes. At night, all cats are gray. I guess the girls too.
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