I read a book with a character almost exactly like you and confused her with you originally, and later especially. I glossed little differences— the way you crack ice with your heel isn’t how she would have waited for my arm, shivered. I was confused: I woke with one of you and dreamed the other, and I’m still not sure who I reached for. I hid the book when you came over. It had a pink cover and dark silhouette half turned toward me or some browser, like you had a bad thought in your head to shake out.
Only now you’re gone I try to peal you separate, remember you real. Like, it would have been you, not her who could steal half my drink without my seeing, you talking the whole while, your wide eyes open. And it would have been her who told me about the kids back then, how cruel they were, and she would have shouted and hollered me down when I stormed out on Sunday, and you would have been who I found when I ducked into the nearest bar, looking for someone alone, and she would have warned me about you.

Extrait 3 L'Enfer d'Henri-Georges Clouzot
envoyé par toutlecine. – Les dernières bandes annonces en ligne.

words © John Cotter
image © Henri-Georges Clouzot