Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

Michel Layaz

might spin faster than it ever had before, faster than it ever would again, the Greek—I sensed it more than saw it—was as relaxed as if he were on the deck of a cruise ship, his delight sculpted in his rather soft flesh. With such an adversary, kissing Romaine would remain a fantasy, especially since my ears were ringing and I had no strength left to pump the merry-go-round. I only wanted it to stop. The dishonor of defeat awaited me. I had to act! To do something, anything! Casanova, in the story of his life, is careful to distinguish between honest ruse and deceit. I don’t know if I was a simple cheat or an honest trickster, but when I realized I would never beat the Greek, I sidled up to him so I could deliver him a Homeric—that is, epic—kick in the shin, with no holds barred, a kick loaded with all my love for Romaine, my disgust with this spinning torture, and my irritation in the face of that impervious smile, come from so far away to thwart my plans. It worked better than expected, this forced destiny brought the immediate surrender of the Greek, who, try as he might to convince everyone with his protests as he holds his leg, no one understood his babbling. I was declared the new King of the Merry-go-round. A tottering king! A feeble-looking king! My legs were stiff, my heart in a whirl. Two black sidewalls limited my field of vision and gradually narrowed it. Without thinking, driven by a will that someone one else was directing inside me, I went up to Romaine, kissed her—certainly less than


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