A Propos de Cannes

They walk along the beach towards the Old Harbor, he in a chapeau Alpin no one wears any more, she in a black flapper dress in torrid mid-July.

“Somebody stole my moped,” she says.

"Good."

“The rental shop wants me to pay for it.”

“You'd have killed yourself with that thing.”

“We shoplifted some wine yesterday,” she sneaks a Gitanes between her lips as she speaks, "and drank it on the beach".

“Why didn't you bring me along?”

“You're an only child, aren't you? I can tell, you're are so spoiled.”

“Give me a cigarette.”

“You are spoiled.” She laughs in that triumphant way of hers.

“At least let me tag along the next time, share the booty.”

“You were chatting to that German girl in the commissary.”

“Beth's from Vacouver.”

“You wanted to fuck her, I could tell. So you're on probation.”

She sticks her Gitanes in his mouth without a thought to giving him a light. The filter tastes of her lipstick. He walks with her along the beach, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

~ ~

more about him, Beth, and her:
Soirée Ambiguë / Since July

~
.
words: Jónas Knútsson, Iceland (more)
image: Dorothee Lang, Germany (virtual notes)