Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

Odile Cornuz

I was stumped. I was still holding the handkerchief tight in my left hand. I checked: yes, it smelled like her, but with… something else I couldn’t place—or rather someone else. Why? She was unloading a list of errands on me but not giving me the handkerchief. What connection was there between her, these strange words, and this square of fabric? Which section of her skin had it delicately explored? I tore the page from the notebook. The rest was untouched. I wrote down the few sentences on the invitation, then put everything back the way it was: the torn enigma beneath the cloud next to the notebook. I held my breath. I could her the tap of her footsteps on the tiles. She’d finished her errands. She was a bit tired. She’d probably go to bed early tonight… And then some odd ideas occurred to me: writing a novel based on the gas-meter reader’s handkerchief! I’d obviously let my imagination run wild once again… She made some room at the table to chop the onions. Me, I was happy to feel my heart race from the feeling that she had almost betrayed me, that I’d almost lost her.


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