Tristesse

Je suis triste et préoccupée en dépit de tout. Trop de nuages. Trop de problèmes matériels s’accumulent dans ma vie et j’essaie de sourire et d’être gaie car j’ai une réelle aptitude au bonheur. Mais en ce moment tout est trop difficile et je n’ai plus la force de lutter. Je me dis que c’est de ma faute, que je n’ai pas l’esprit assez pratique mais je ne veux pas, et je ne peux plus, rejoindre la rat race à nouveau. Les personnes honnêtes sont pénalisées, humiliées, vivent dans la crainte et la précarité. Beaucoup d’exclus et un monde de plus en plus dur…et encore on n’est pas en Ukraine ou en Syrie.. Parfois je perds l’espoir et le courage… J’apprends à vivre dans le moment et à apprécier les petite choses de la vie, le doux ronron de ma chatte, ma relation avec ma famille, mon fils, le simple fait d’être en vie, qui est un grand cadeau. Mais parfois l’angoisse et les difficultés matérielles viennent ruiner cet équilibre fragile.

J’espère, malgré tout, que ce n’est qu’un mauvais moment à passer. Et puis la nature est belle…

Lettre à Antonio ( errance amoureuse 9 )

Ton amour m’emplissait toute entière et plus rien d’autre sur terre n’avait d’importance. Rien que toi et le tango. Je voulais progresser comme danseuse pour que tu m’admires, être la plus belle, la plus brillante, la plus lumineuse à tes yeux. En amour, tu aimais dominer, tu étais le maître, le maestro. Et je me soumettais car tu étais le seul homme pour qui j’éprouvais vraiment de l’admiration. Eric, mon mari, était gentil, il cherchait à combler mes désirs, mais il ne me comprenait pas. Pourtant il m’offrait tout le confort matériel dont je rêvais, et ce confort j’en avais besoin. Pour toi cependant, il me semble que j’aurais tout sacrifié. Et puis la bataille était inégale. Eric, c’était le quotidien, les pantoufles, le whisky servi le soir, les dîners d’affaires avec ses invités, les repas de famille avec les beaux parents… Et les fausses couches, les tentatives impossibles pour avoir un enfant, les espoirs sans cesse déçus.

Et toi Antonio le bel Argentin qui m’avait conquise avec tes dents blanches, ton accent chantant, ton sourire un peu triste, tes yeux sombres qui contenaient tout le charme porteño… Tu étais l’exotisme, l’aventure… Larguer les amarres pour ne plus revenir. Et dès le début, je fus jalouse, maladivement jalouse. Je savais que par ta profession tu rencontrais beaucoup d’autres femmes, aussi sensibles que je l’étais à ton charme. Mais cette maudite jalousie ne faisait qu’augmenter ma fièvre. Toi aussi, tu affectais d’être jaloux, mais je sentais bien que c’était plus une pose qu’autre chose. Tu savais qu’au fond je t’appartenais corps et âme. J’étais pleine de toi, de nous. Eric ne comptait plus. Personne ne comptait plus.

Qui pourrait me jeter la pierre? La passion n’a pas besoin de morale ni de justification. Antonio mon beau danseur, tu as su illuminer une vie qui paraissait terne et sans saveur. Oui, j’aurais peut-être dû mieux apprécier mon bonheur quotidien mais j’en étais bien incapable et encore aujourd’hui je ne regrette rien. Qui oserait me reprocher mon amour…même s’il n’était qu’une illusion? Les illusions sont parfois beaucoup plus belles que la réalité.

 

 

Branksome Dene Chine

Not so safe in Branksome Dene Chine, beware of strangers lurking around the woods, beware of the dashing young aviator with the clear blue eyes, beware of the handsome gentleman, the wolf in sheep’s clothing. And beware of the ghosts that haunt the woods and cliffs as you take a leisurely stroll there with your lover or have your wedding picture taken. For blood has been shed in Branksone Dene Chine.

White sandy beaches, tea shops, hotels, magnificient seaviews, old ladies having scones and cream tea, Tory Party conferences. This is where Tess murdered Sir Alec, the lovable rogue…

Beware of smooth talkers… The Universe does not always reward virtue and innocence. Violence and fickleness can hide under a gentle appearance. Light can conceal darkness…in Branksome Dene Chine or anywhere.

Blood calls out for blood. But the world goes on regardless.

Oh we do like to be beside the seaside… Oh we do like to be beside the sea…

Her Phantom Prince

He wants her and doesn’t want her. He needs her as a shoulder to cry on when is is scared of his demons and has no one else to confide into. He is ashamed of his dark desires but at times his secrets are too much of a burden for him to bear. His irresistible impulses, his unholy drives… She is the only one who can help him keep his delusion of sanity. Sometimes he fears he might hurt her. She is so frail, so fragile, so innocent… She really has no clue. But he thirsts for blood, fresh blood, and the Night is his natural habitat. He does not feel too much remorse after his actions, mainly a sense of relief as his lust has been satiated. He may feel some regret after each kill, panic and fear of getting caught. At times he believes himself to be godlike and invincible, at other times  he just feels a sense of terror and unreality. Then he needs to phone her even in the middle of the night, just to her her soothing voice, grounding him back to a normal life if only for a little while. He is an old Presbyterian at heart and believes himself cursed. There can be no mercy, no forgiveness for him, no pardon for his sins, no unburdening of the heart. Only she can offer him some temporary solace. She holds him against her chest, they kiss and cry together. She asks him where he has been during his increasingly frequent absences, he says he cannot tell her or makes up some more lies. What else could he do? He cannot bear the thought of losing her even though he is lost to himself.

His craving for blood is stronger than anything. He will prowl the streets at night, waiting for the next available prey, a young woman with long dark hair, full of life, full of hopes and expectations. He knows he holds the power of life and death over her. That is the main thrill. Mastery of other people’s lives is his only form of control.

He cannot tell how much she suspects. She will cry herself to sleep waiting for his return. She is sick with worry and anxiety. She has more doubts than he could possibly imagine, even in his most paranoid moments. She could not handle the truth. Although deep down doesn’t she know the truth already?

Night Train Angel

Leah is standing on the deserted train platform with her rucksack on, trying to warm her hands in her coat pockets and tapping her feet on the ground. The station looks shabby and desolate. She wraps her scarf tightly around her neck. She really shouldn’t have left her flat this late, but she was feeling so depressed and misses her boyfriend Peter like crazy. So that weekend in Paris was a spur of the moment decision. Even if it meant warning her two roommates at the last minute, packing a few belongings in her bag and dragging herself to the nearest cashpoint at midnight. She has withdrawn 200 euros and made her way to the station where she bought a ticket to the City of Lights on the Brive Paris sleeper train. She is on her way to meet her lover. After all, you only live once  and she would just DIE if she couldn’t see Peter the next day, feel the warmth of his skin against her and the softness of his cuddles. All that matters to her now is him, and to hell with her Erasmus studies in that sedate little French town in the middle of nowhere.   Peter and his dark moods, Peter and his uneven temper, Peter who blows hot and cold but also Peter the history graduate who thinks he belongs to another century, who is romantic and passionate, who cooks her nice meals and prefers letters to texts and emails. Although the tone of his letters had become colder recently. He had hinted at another female he had met at a party, who didn’t leave him indifferent. Leah had to respect his freedom as he respected hers. She had cried, then he had told her she was his only true love, distance was the problem. If they could see each other more often, everything would be different. How about a weekend in Paris to talk things over?

” I’ll get a Eurostar ticket and pay for a cosy little hotel. See you very soon my little duck”.

She checks her last messages on her mobile. It is now completely dark and misty. Two cats are meowing in the distance. Their cries are wild, they seem to be fighting. She can also hear some laughter and music from the nearby bars. Some stay open quite late at night. A woman in a short leather skirt approaches the station, stumbling on her high heels.

” Have you got a fag, love?”she asks Leah. A tall bearded man with a wrinkled face and an angry expression comes running after her and grabs her by the arm. Without a word of protest, she follows him back into one the clubs.

Leah can still hear the raucous laughter of the revellers. Maybe she could go and sit somewhere for a coffee, she is so cold…but those places look too seedy and she doesn’t dare. Her train shouldn’t be too long coming anyway.

She has sent a text to Peter and wants to check her messages. She realises her phone battery is dead. Oh no, not now, when she is so desperate to hear from him… She curses inwardly and tears start flooding her eyes. She has never trusted Peter very much. He has always made it very clear he was a free spirit…as she thought she was too until she met him.

” Are you okay?” She turns around and notices the young stranger standing right besides her. She was so absorbed in her own thoughts she had been totally oblivious to his presence. He is slim, has curly dark hair, a nice tan and very white teeth. He is wearing jeans, a baseball cap and a sweathshirt with some American logo.

” You know, you shouldn’t really be hanging around here on your own right now. It´s not a very safe part of the city.”

” I am waiting for my train. Would you mind if I borrowed your phone for a minute? I just need to call my boyfriend. He should be in Paris by now. I have no battery left and I can pay you for the call.”

– No problem, go ahead. As long as you are safe…”

He hands her his mobile. She tries to ring Peter but there is no reply. He smiles.

” Men are all the same, aren’t they? Hey, don’t panic. He’s probably asleep. You’ve got me to look after you now… By the way, what´s your name?”

” Leah.”

” Mine is Karim.” He has an engaging smile. He offers her a rolled up cigarette and they each get a coffee from the vending machine. She feels a bit better now, comforted by his presence and her stomach warmed up.

” Here’s our train. I’m afraid it´s not the TGV.” An ageing Corail Express that has seen much better days comes crawling into the station. Leah and Karim board carriage number 15.

” Mind if we have a little chat together?”he asks her. “I have some weed with me. No one is going to check on us at this time of night”. She agrees, so desperate for a bit of company.

” So where are you off to?”

” Paris. Just for the weekend. I’m supposed to be meeting my boyfriend.”

” Is it really serious between you two?”

She sighs.

” It´s complicated. I don’t think he’s quite ready to commit.”

” Yeah, I know the feeling. My last girlfriend kicked me out.” He hands her a joint.She inhales deeply. He asks her where she comes from, she says Birmingham, England.

” I am studying for a Law Degree. Then I might do a Master’s Degree. I’m only here for a year. What about you?”

” Oh you know, school’s never been my thing I’m afraid. Now I am going to Paris to stay with some mates and look for work. I lived with my brother in Marseille  when I moved from Algeria. I was only a kid. But there was a civil war in my country for a while. And I found it hard to get used to the French school system. I didn’t speak the language very well. And the other school kids were making fun of me and calling me a dirty Arab.”

” You know, I feel a kind of bond between us.” Leah feels more relaxed with the cannabis. “Maybe because in a way we are both foreign, both lonely. And Peter, he is always so uptight…”

” Perhaps you are an angel and are here to save me.”

” Save you from what?”

” Many things”. He stays silent for a while. The train rattles on the track. She leans her forehead on the window and closes her eyes.

He touches her hand gently.

” Is that a cashmere jumper you’re wearing?

” Yes, it was a Christmas present from my parents.”

” Your skin is so soft Leah. Let me warm your hands.”

He caresses her hands and strokes her hair.

” Have you ever fancied someone on a train before?”

” Well, last year I went on a trip to Spain and I took the train to go to Gibraltar. It was the middle of Summer and we were going through the Andalusian countryside. And I met that gorgeous Australian surfer with his tan and sunkissed hair. We could have…but we didn’t. Maybe I am too much of a Victorian after all. I’ve never been able to really let go of my inhibitions. I have always held back… Although I feel a bit different today…

” Amina was my girl. I was really serious about her. We were going to have a baby and everything. I tried to do everything right for her. But nothing was ever good enough. And it was the same with Karen. Thought she was above me. She told me to leave even though I had a good job and had given up drinking. But you… You could be my woman.”

” I’ll try to help you Karim. But it will only be one night…” She lets her head fall onto his shoulder and awaits his reaction. But he seems to be tensing up. She opens her eyes and he is staring at her with an expression of cold contempt.

” So this is it then. Just like the others. You’re all the same, Karen, Amina, all the same stuck up bitches. Just a bunch of dirty sluts.”

They have reached a signal.

“Karim, what is wrong with you?”

” What is wrong with me? I’ll tell you what is wrong with me if you just listen, bitch! No, don’t try to run away, Karen tried and it wasn’t any use…”

” Let me go please. I’ll do anything.”

Leah has tried to make a way for the door but  he has blocked her exit. He yanks her hair and pins her down to her seat. He tries to fondle her breasts. She pushes him away, kicking and screaming in terror. He puts his hand over her mouth.

” Do you know what it feels like to be rejected? No matter how hard you try, women never think you’re good enough for them. Never. And I’ve tried. I’ve really tried… What do you know about life anyway? Well, I’ll show you. I’ll show you a little bit of life…”

She scratches his face and tries to bite his hand. He slaps her.

” Look what you’ve just done to me bitch. You’ve just bitten me Leah. Do you know where Karen is now? She is lying in a bin bag at the bottom of the cellar. No one will ever find her now.”

Leah is begging, pleading for her life. Is it all going to end like this when all of her earlier problems now seem so futile by comparison. They engage in a desperate struggle.  She is just an animal fighting for her survival. He holds her down against the seat, his hands tightening against her throat. She tries to scream one more time but she can no longer utter any sound. She sees blinking lights in front of her and his dark demented eyes as the train keeps hissing.

He feels her going limp in his arms. He kisses and caresses her lifeless body. Quickly he opens the carriage window. He lifts the corpse and throws it out where it crashes at high speed against the rails. He heaves a sigh of relief and lights a cigarette. He glances at his watch. It is now 4.20 am.

 

 

 

Demon Lover

He comes to visit me every night. At first I tried very hard to resist his power but something irresistible drags me back to him over and over again. He is my Master, my Dark Angel, my Demon Lover. He hurts me and tortures me. He loves to degrade and demean me and yet I yearn for his kisses, for the powerful hold he has over me. He wants to master Life and Death and I surrender gladly to his will.

Each of his caresses leaves me weaker and weaker. He preys on my vitality and my vulnerability. He gorges himself on my blood and leaves when his appetite is satiated for he has no heart.

He is depraved and unprincipled. He knows every vice there is to know. His only pleasure is to inflict pain. He is my Prince of Darkness and a whimsical, capricious child. I am his mother, his sister, his lover and his slave.

I dream of him and get restless when he is not around. I await his return, when I will abandon myself wholly to his desires. At times, I long for his rough touch, at other times l just want to hold him in my arms and gently rock him to sleep.

Perhaps his kisses will kill me some day but this is a death I am more than willing to embrace for we depend on each other and I cannot conceive of my existence without him.

My Fallen Angel, my Lucifer, I fear I cannot save you… Then let me just quench your thirst and take me down with you…to everlasting Life or Death.

The drowning girl.

She is lying on a pebbly beach, her dress drenched in salty water. Her hair is matted with lichen. She has tried to swim, swim ashore, and has finally been dumped here, deprived of all her strength. Stokes bay. Gosport. She has been tossed and turned by the waves and swallowed a lot of water. The moon is bright red and huge in the starless sky. She is not dead yet but no longer fighting for her life. She is shivering. Her teeth are chattering. The coming tide will finally cover her body and she will close her eyes one last time on this world that didn’t want her. Or that she was unfit for. She is slowly drifting out of consciousness. Her breathing is raspy and erratic. She is hoping for a sign but none comes. She can smell the sand and the seaweed. She tries to grasp a fistful of sand in her hand and lets it go. She closes her eyes and turns her head away. Soon the seagulls will be picking at her eyes and little fish will enter her mouth.

The foghorn is blaring. It is a forlorn and desolate sound. She feels at peace with herself now, all her illusions gone and her desperate hold on life slipping away. She lets out one last sigh and opens up her big blue eyes to a new dawn on the seaside.

Elise à Deauville (errance amoureuse 8)

Il décida de me sortir le grand jeu: resto, champagne, boîte à la mode, weekend à Deauville parce que le casino ici, c’est un peu ringard. Il n’y a que des mémés avec leurs machines à sous. Je lui dis que je ne le connaissais pas très bien.

– Et alors tu as peur?

– Eh bien, je ne sais presque rien de toi. Tu es peut-être Jack l’Eventreur.

– C’est vrai que j’habite pas loin de son quartier, à Canary Wharf. Mais je t’assure que je n’ai jamais ressenti le désir de découper une fille en morceaux.

– Même pas moi?

Il me regardait en souriant.

– Pour toi, je ferais peut-être une exception… Arrête de prendre cet air de femme fatale.

– Mais ton boulot te plaît?

– Oui, tu sais, c’est passionnant de vivre à Londres.

-Et de travailler dans une banque d’investissement?

– Ça me permet de vivre.

Il riait. Il me parlait de ses loisirs, de sa passion pour la Bretagne et les régates. Il me disait qu’il aimerait bien prendre sa retraite sur la Côte de Granit Rose. Moi, pour l’instant, j’avais plutôt envie de partir…

– Et tu veux te marier? Avoir des enfants?

– J’ai le temps pour ça, non?

– Même avec Marie-Agnès?

– Marie-Agnès, c’est qui?

Je feignis de rire. Je me faisais l’effet d’une grande séductrice. Je ne vais pas  jouer le scénario de l’oie blanche. J’ai aimé une certaine image de l’aisance, du luxe facile. J’ai été cette lycéenne apâtée par les belles paroles, la richesse, tout ce qui brille. Peut-être le suis-je  toujours, avec quelques années de plus…

Le lendemain, il m’emmenait à Deauville. Sur la route, il m’embrassait dans le cou, me disait que j’avais la peau si douce… Dans le grand hôtel avec vue sur la corniche, il me fit couler un bain moussant, me sécha et me massa la peau avec de l’arnica. Il fut un amant tendre et attentionné, soucieux aussi de mon plaisir, mais sans vouloir en faire trop, comme parfois les garçons de mon âge.

Je me blottis dans ses bras

– Je t’aime, je t’aime, je n’ai jamais aimé personne plus que toi…

– Oh Elise, que sais-tu de l’amour? Tu es si jeune…

J’éclatai de rire.

– Et toi si vieux! Tu m’emmèneras à Londres avec toi?

– Je t’emmènerai sur une île déserte si tu préfères. Ou en Patagonie.

Je fis la moue

– Qu’est-ce qu’on ferait en Patagonie?

– On élèverait des moutons.

– Emmène-moi plutôt danser.

– Demain, je t’offre une robe et on ira au casino. Tu me porteras chance, petite gitane.

J’accrochai une rose à mes cheveux et nous partîmes danser. Dans la boîte de nuit je sentais les regards des autres hommes sur moi, et ceux, envieux, de certaines de leurs compagnes, parfois bien botoxées, manucurées et couvertes de bijoux, mais Jean-Marc n’avait d’yeux que pour moi. Je me sentais belle, dotée d’un pouvoir de séduction magique.

Nous allâmes au casino le lendemain. Nous perdîmes de l’argent avec panache. Je bus trop de champagne, et pleurai en m’accrochant à lui sur le chemin de l’hôtel. Il avait décidé qu’une petite marche nocturne me dégriserait mais il s’était mis à pleuvoir et je grelottais dans ma petite robe à bretelles.

– Jure-moi que tu m’aimeras toujours, que tu ne me quitteras pas pour une autre, que tu ne préfères pas Marie-Agnès. Même si ce n’est pas vrai, je veux que tu me le dises ce soir.

Il promit tout ce que je voulais. Il me fit doucement l’amour dans le grand lit douillet. La chambre tournait autour de moi. J’étais ivre et amoureuse.

Puis il fallut partir au matin. Le ciel était maussade. Les mouettes tournaient autour du balcon avec des glapissements que je trouvais lugubre. Nous allions nous séparer, il allait retourner à ses affaires, Marie-Agnès et moi à nos études, prépa Sciences Po pour elle, vague fac d’espagnol pour moi.

Il m’avait promis de m’écrire et se garda bien de le faire. J’avais trop de fierté pour le lui reprocher. Qu’aurait-il pu me dire d’ailleurs? Je t’ai aimée le temps d’un été, un jour tu rencontreras un garçon de ton âge qui te rendra heureuse, ce sera mieux pour toi, tu ne pensais tout de même pas que c’était sérieux, tu n’étais pas mon genre. La fille du juge peut-être, mais Elise la gitane pas assez de classe, manque de pedigree… J’ai enfoncé mes ongles profondément dans ma main et me suis griffée jusqu’au sang. J’ai ravalé mes larmes et ma douleur et me suis promis plus jamais ça.

 

Le premier amour d’Elise (errance amoureuse 7)

Je pense toujours à toi mon tanguero. J’aurais voulu être la première, bien entendu, la seule aussi, cela va sans dire. En amour on ne partage pas, dis-moi, réponds-moi…mon petit chat sauvage tu me disais, mi gatita, ma féline d’amour…

Laisse-moi donc te parler de mes propres aventures qui furent bien moins nombreuses que les tiennes.

J’excluerais presque d’emblée Stéphane, le premier, enfin , celui qui a pris mon pucelage sans obtenir accès à mon coeur. Un gars de la Cité des Eglantines, bagarreur, mauvais genre, bossant aux Ateliers Municipaux. Il avait aussi travaillé un certain temps comme videur dans une boîte de nuit un peu louche “Le Chat Huant”. Sa soeur fréquentait le même lycée catho que moi, après s’être fait renvoyer du lycée public. Elle me l’avait présenté: tu sais, c’est une grande gueule, mais il a bon coeur. J’étais prête à la croire. Avec lui on ne s’ennuyait pas, virées en discothèques, traffics, embrouilles avec la police, toujours prêt à cogner si un autre gars me faisait de l’oeil. Bien sûr pas trop question de parler philo ou littérature mais on ne peut pas tout avoir. Et moi, fille d’une aide soignante d’origine espagnole, un peu gitane, elle aimait dire, j’avais de l’ambition. Stéphane et moi on s’est aimés pour la première et dernière fois dans un champ de maïs, en plein mois d’août. Bucolique mais douloureux. J’eus peur d’être enceinte, je ne voulais pas gaspiller mon avenir pour si peu de plaisir!

J’étais encore novice dans les jeux de l’amour, j’ignorais comment défendre ma vertu contre les assauts du mâle dominant, savoir entretenir l’envie, le désir, pour bien ferrer la proie. Cela viendrait plus tard.

Ce fut l’été du bac. Au grand soulagement de ma mère, je choisis de meilleures fréquentations, comme Marie-Agnès, la fille du juge de Launey. En apparence du moins car avec sa bande de gosses de riches, on continuait à boire de l’alcool, fumer des joints et sortir en cachette dès qu’on en avait l’occasion. Marie-Agnès sortait avec un binoclard du lycée, promis semblait-il à un brillant avenir. Je rencontrai Jean-Marc, son voisin, âgé d’une trentaine d’années, propriétaire d’une villa de vacances sur notre belle côte de granit rose. D’emblée, il me plut, yeux noirs étirés comme ceux d’un chat, voix suave, élégance discrète, pulls en cachemire, humour un peu British. Il travaillait dans une banque d’affaires à Londres. Il nous parlait en anglais pour nous impressionner et aimait nous raconter des anecdotes de sa vie londonienne. Nous tentions d’imiter son accent en éclatant de rire.

Marie-Agnès et moi faisions nos révisions, allongées dans le jardin de la maison du juge. Le bac approchait à grand pas.

– Qu’est-ce qu’il me gonfle, ce Jean-Marc, soupira mon amie d’un air excédé. Mes parents voudraient que je sorte avec lui. C’est pour ça qu’il passe presque tous les soirs chez nous. Tu ne voudrais pas lui faire changer d’idée? Il ne te plaît pas à toi?

Je haussai les épaules.

– Mais si il te plaît, avoue-le, je l’ai vu tout de suite! Et puis tu es tout à fait son genre de femme, brune, racée… Allez, je t’arrange le coup, tu ne vas pas le regretter. Moi, j’ai déjà Benoît et avec lui c’est du sérieux.

J’avoue que l’idée me tente. Et les hommes mûrs ne me laissent pas indifférente. Peut-être parce que je n’ai pas connu mon père.

Pour la sortie prévue en mer, dans le voilier de Jean-Marc, Marie-Agnès se fit porter pâle. Nous fîmes le tour des Sept Iles, avec leur réserve ornithologique. Nous partageâmes sandwichs aux rillettes de saumon et une bouteille de champagne. Le vent me frappait le visage. Jean Marc me regardait d’un air admiratif: toi au moins, tu as le pied marin. Je riais, un peu grisée par les embruns et le champagne. Nous fîmes escale dans un petit bistrot de pêcheurs. Je feignis de trouver tout cela exotique.

– Tu as un regard mystérieux. Tu m’intrigues beaucoup comme fille.

– Je suis un peu gitane.

– Tu peux me lire les lignes de la main?

– Je peux te prédire l’avenir. Mais pour ça on doit trinquer les yeux dans les yeux.

Il serre ma main dans la sienne. Puis il m’embrasse doucement sur les lèvres.

– Je crois que tu me plais beaucoup petite gitane.

By annagaelle