She was fragile as a little bird. Her eyes always looking nervously for the exit. But she didn’t give much thought about her nymph’s fate. Instead, disguised her fears with sensuous gestures, obscene words, and cheap perfume. Her hair had traces of faded colors, and her afternoons many Belle de Jour’s stories. But I always saw the little girl behind the representation. Lost in a whirlwind of questions, I couldn’t make up my mind if I should devour or save her once and for all. In the end, it was her who decided, when she undressed my soul and, as a frightened little bird, swallowed me.
