lTheir lives intersect on a mountain road, on a curve, at the exit of a Corsican village. Their meeting is tenuous, silent, slowed down by the hyperattention typical of the last few days, those of the penultimate puffs and the farewell of weapons. Her: she is just over thirty years old. Barely separated, after fifteen years of living together, from a young man he met at age 16 and who remained young at age 30, a choice of fine lines and sclerosis.
The nurse in retraining towards her still doesn’t know what. Meanwhile, since the beginning of summer he has been traveling around Corsica in his father’s van converted for the occasion into a pizza truck. After all these years of letting the pulse of each person’s suffering and loneliness set the pace, the configuration It’s ideal for getting your daily dose of human encounters, but not too close.
Therefore, on the afternoon of their first meeting, a Monday afternoon, there were few people. The pizza dough balls are ready, well puffed and smooth, the sauces and toppings are on the trays, right away. Rinsed after her day on the river, standing behind the counter, she listens to a podcast about crows and their superior intelligence. Squinting, lulled by the voice in her ears, she doesn’t see him coming, his small size, his huge smile compared to her small size, well in place despite what’s happening, one of his two incisors broken, abandoned like this, with her hair standing on end, overflowing everywhere with her kindness, which in other times, under other skies, she would have taken for stupidity. All comfortable with wide, soft navy blue pants.
Very high fun bun
Him: just over forty years old. Physiotherapist in practice. Single, since she was 20 years old. Too sensitive for that, not the kidneys. He lives and practices in Corsica. Never far from his family. Keep an eye on his mother who is dying, make her move as much as possible, this has been happening for months. He, his identity, his life is summarized in what and what suits him. The afternoon of their first meeting, a Monday afternoon, he spent the previous hours reading her things, everything that was out there, massaging her, trying to make her laugh, because her mother’s laughter is a sign that things are still okay. . . He hardly eats anything anymore. She tried everything, cooked everything, but when he talked about a margarita, the new pizza truck on the outskirts of town, she said Oh! Yes, I would like that.
So here it is. He goes up the curve and, when he approaches his truck, he sees her tall, with broad and thin shoulders at the same time, athletic, with her brown hair tied up in a fun, very high bun, stuck to her forehead because of the heat she resists. fall with the night. Good night. She opens her eyes, brutally removes her headphones and looks at him. Good night. He orders his margarita and brings it to his mother, who is lying in bed with her cats. She loves it. To the point of wanting to eat just that, every night, a few bites or more, that doesn’t work.
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