Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Camille Laurens

That ’s what I ended up doing when it comes down to it, didn’t I? In the end I did as I was told. I’m not alive here. Is that what you all think? When you’re crazy the imperative sounds like an incontrovertible command, doesn’t it? Tell me, is that what you all think? A command that can be turned around too. Oh, go on. That can be sent back to the sender. Go die yourself. When you’re crazy. When a woman’s crazy. And is that what ’s written there, that I’m crazy? Are all women crazy? Chris’s Facebook status publicly proclaimed he was a photographer, so I set up my avatar, cooking up an identity as a girl passionate about photography. For my profile picture I used a shot of a dark-haired girl I found on Google, her face completely hidden by the lens of a Pentax, all you could see of her was her hair, by flitting through photos of the girls he was friends with I’d worked out he prefers brunettes. I said I was twenty-four (twelve years younger than him rather than twelve years older), that I lived in Paris but traveled a lot, I stacked all the odds in my favor. Before sending him a friend request— I wanted to dangle the bait without arousing his suspicion— I scooped up a few dozen of his friends, people I didn’t know but

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