" - I bring you my best wishes. - Thanks, I'll try to do something. " (J. Fox)
And subwoofers vibrate the air, alcohol and disappointment flow freely. A box of cigarillos raisin sits atop the coffee table. A couple made love in the next room: the voice hoarse Springsteen does not cover noise from the bed that moves. Clara smokes on the balcony, it is 0:02, it is already tomorrow. Behind her are heard loud voices, we are throwing good year healthy slam and kisses on the cheeks reddened. Under her in the street, cars are parked and honking occasionally.
The cat is rubbing his legs, purring. Clara hardly noticeable. Well Well, two thousand eleven: what does it change? This year I either do not write good resolutions. Obstinate in the winter. Clara throws her cigarette over the parapet of stone. Yeah, what good ?
She slid and slammed the door-window: one looks, one would expect. She uncapped a beer while trying to ignore all this little world that watches. She turns around with tears in her eyes, broken voice. Bon bah, eh good year. Nobody replied, turning the head, we find it so miserable. Clara then grabs his duffle coat, pulls on his Brandenburg cursing everyone and descends in the poorly lit street.
Go to hell with all your good year, "she grumbles, salty lips in his wool scarf.
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