Paris, France. About five years before Day I
‘Where’re you from?’ She asked and he smiled to finish the whisky.
‘I’m sure you can ask me more interesting questions, Lorraine’. She had never looked a man with so confident attitude. In a normal situation, she would have controlled the environment and she would have had him wherever she wanted. But she had noticed at the first sight he was not a normal man. ‘If I would be, you would never have talked me, wouldn’t you?’ Was he true? ‘I’m a baroque painting.’ Was he ling? ‘Have you ever met anybody who has never lied?’ Was he reading my thinking? ‘You wanted to play, and then I played.’ I think we could work together, don’t we? ‘We will, Lorraine. We have begun to work yet’.
About Lorraine. Paris. About fifteen years before Day I
Sometimes, she felt like another person, like a character prisoner of the play destiny. What would she doing with François? He was a simple person… in fact a ridiculous boy who tried constantly to boast, who tried to look better as the silly naïve half-man he was.
‘You love me, Lorraine?’ It’s always easy to lie… William Wilson would teach her some years later.
‘How couldn’t I do, François?’ She kissed him and his lips tasted wasted and empty. Would you like to kiss me, Mr Wilson? I would, you would? …and you finished your cup suddenly and you went out. I’ve been looking for you, but you never went back to the lectures and I couldn’t ever be able to talk you about François. I would like to talk you about my lies, about the girl I was before we met. I would like to talk about my babe and about a little dog called Jack. I don’t like dogs and I don’t like stupid boys.
‘What do you think, Lorraine?’
‘I was just thinking about us, darling.’ Just thinking at the day I left you, the day I was free, the day I met Mr Wilson, the day I was reborn.
**Fake Game, serial novel by Martin Cid http://yareah.com/?cat=293