![]() Before this, she lived near Porte de Clignancourt and before that on the rue du Commerce. She’s been living near the Porte de Vanves for three months now. She’ll take the rue Falguière and then the rue Labrouste. She signals to the driver, who gives a regretful shrug, as if to say Oh well, such is life. She runs for the bus but, just as she’s about to get on, changes her mind, decides to walk a little way. She quickens her step, the driver sees her in the rearview mirror and waits. It is completely dark now and the night is warm. Her fleeting encounters with men never become love stories this is a part of the film she’s seen many times, a part she remembers. Alex knows all too well how these things go. ![]() ![]() The next time she has dinner here, she might stay a little later, and he might be waiting for her outside when she leaves - who knows? Alex knows. Her life is a series of frozen images, a spool of film that has snapped in the projector - it is impossible for her to rewind, to refashion her story, to find new words. ![]()
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