At eleven in the evening, neither the moon nor street lamps can bring the market square back to life. The cast-iron gate next to the pharmacy opens at five in the morning and they walk on the cobblestones with their walkers.
He is skinny, so that the frame in front of him could almost be called chubby, she with fur, hat and the light but sure step of a Latin conjugation, always half a meter in front of her companion. Before they both disappear into the darkness of the arcades, a pause, an erection, a look back.
Estuary
swans
to the sky
