Being single in late December, -15 degrees outside, 22 degrees inside. Look out the window of the apartment in Villeray, all white. Dreaming patiently in the spring in a park. With bare legs of a stranger, exits too early on fresh grass. Just to taunt the winter, to give the coup de grace.
She still wears his boots and socks to the knees, an itchy wool sweater that hides and neck. We love each other since two days ago, on the tiptoe. I am still a current of air, which raises her hair to steal a bit of perfume in the hollow of his neck. She smiled, looking at the floor, knowing full well that I observed. His hand makes its way through my coat to arise, all cold at the base of my back. I dream to do the same, to discover his skin like a blind man reads Braille at your fingertips with the tips of eyelashes or lips. In silence, we taste the fine sand of first caresses without thinking first moments of Hourglass. Slowly, she turns her head to read in my eyes with two suns. Telepathy is something both vague and precise. Without to say all the details, we know we want to go through a path more or less short, stick our lips and stick our bodies. His hand left my back to rejoin my own and without consulting each other, we get up.
Hopefully it will be hot this summer.
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