Chat Noir

He walked through the market stalls, looked around looking for what he had been going there for a couple of months, once a week once a week. He remembered when at first he used to go there every morning, then he understood he was there only at Friday and then he had made it clear that he would always have an date with fate on Friday morning. Crazy on his part, stay and watch from afar, following her and dreaming that he can talk to her. He studied her, he understood that she preferred strawberries to plums, but even more so cherries, he discovered that she did not like fabrics of too dark colors, she loved the colours of spring and the laces, she loved hats and always had a different one, unfortunately everyone cover her face too much, she was golden of macarons, she preferred the classic ones, she never refused a carinery or a compliment, but she knew she was getting them, she was elegant and refined in every aspect, always stopped in the flower counter to smell the intense perfume of roses and then she wasted a lot of time between new books, betting she loved the smell of new printing pages. He loved her. He was sure. Even if he had never spoken to her, even if he had never really seen her face properly befor. But what did it matter? He knew he loved her. When he saw her by the colourful flowers, he dreamy sigh. He had found her that morning. He thought about how lucky those tulips were, to which she was paying her attention by caressing their petals, with those thin fingers with a graceful touch and snow-white skin. God, he was really freaked out about that woman. From his hat he could see a black lock of hair from his hat and dreamed of curling it in a mischievous encounter of glaces. His angel. That's what he called her, since she obviously didn't have a name to hold on to. He daydreamed that he could wake up every morning at her side and see her asleep while, perhaps, she was dreaming about him. She would have been elegant even in sleep. He would have done nothing but ennoble all her behavior. Spread praise on every aspect. And maybe while he was staring at her sleeping, he would write her love letters, poems imbued with emotion and make fun of some of them, because he was a fool in love. He imagined her with the first rays of the sun to wet her face and the white sheets that delicate caressed her belly, perhaps left bare after an intense night. He would have even changed for her, he would not have been the usual fool, because he deserved better and he would never have second thoughts and every stories he had had he would have buried them to hide them from her, it didn't matter if the other women he had made his own would have prayed for his death. He wanted to know what she was always thinking, in every moment, if she smiled to shield herself from the world, if that shield then led her to reject company. The first time he had glimpsed her red lips he felt something shaking at the middle of his stomach. Foolishly, from that moment, in every woman who owned in the nights he devoted his vices, he searched that colour on their lips, but that lady was different, nobody could be compared to her. Alone she was worth a hundred times all her achievements together. And, not to brag, they were a lot. In his world of easy costumes he was searching for her, who was in another level, in another class. Should he have paid in tatters of soul or pieces of heart for it? He prayed, as usual, to be noticed by her, to be benedict from her look, to understand their colour. He knew they were beautiful, his heart told them. But which colour? Blue as the heavenly time? Perhaps because of the gift that God had given her to the world, maybe it advanced him a piece of sky. Brown like the earth from which sprouts and flowers and fruits feed the humanity? Or maybe green like the immense valleys of the Provence, like the spring leafs that gives oxygen for life. Which colour would have coloured his heart? And she was still there, in his dreams, beautiful and asleep, while he was protecting her from the evils of the world, as he looked at her and realized he was falling in love more and more. He would got crazy for this woman, he wanted her in any cost and he couldn't just ignore it. He didn't feel any limits for that feeling. He continued following her until the usual book counter. She had chosen a poetry collection and turned it around in her hands before opening it and take look inside. That day, he had decided to be brave, to move forward at least one step. He didn't care if his friend told him to stay away from her, he didn't care if the social rank shared them like a huge crevaccio, he didn't care to risk getting hurt himself. Fearlessly he passed by her side and, among the crowd, pretended to collide with her mistakenly, in doing so he slipped the book out of her hand. He turned around and regretted. > He said bending down to pick up the fallen object. He didn't expect to find himself in heaven just standing up. The sky... His heart was painted blue. He was enchanted and, while the sweet smell of the woman intoxicated his senses, he was blessed with that divine vision. The skin looked like silk, the slightly reddened cheeks, the black chokes of a hidden hair were slightly moved by the wind. He realized that it was as she had always wanted it. Deep down, whatever it was, he wanted her exactly how she was. He imagined in the sheets of a bed that was unshaken to enjoy those intense colors and that intoxicating perfume. Which smell could love have with her? Definitely pungent and passionate. Maybe if roses. She was an angel, but paradoxically, in his most hidden fantasies, her surrounded him with passion. > He smiled. Sweet and delicate. He was always more inebetic. > He handed her the book. > In taking it from their hands he made them touch it between their fingers and he is beaten by a sweet treamor. He imagined her, involuntarily, that skin, he felt it flowing through her hands that impatient, caressed the body. All of Paris would have spoken about them, their eternal love. > He tried to talk to her. > The woman seemed embarrassed, maybe from her interlocutor's little eye look. > He managed to keep control of his voice. > > He turned his back on and, with fake security, he started looking at the stall waiting for her to continue the speech. > Even the brunette followed its example, but kept looking at it with the tail of his eye. That young man was very curious and, for his boring, boring, boring life, he felt like he was breathing fresh air. I know something about that. > Involuntarily smiled. > Turned back to look at her. At that question the young man raised his face and looked at the boy's eyes. They looked at her like they were looking for a secret inside her soul. She felt terribly n***d without her usual armor protecting her feelings. He turned quickly and went back to cover his face better. > She went fast, so the boy didn't have time to block her or say goodbye. > I'll whisper between myself.