Would then the little grey hat be the thing that attracted,
I love hats, used to have one actually, a black one, large, gave it to a woman
gorgeous wearing nothing else but the black hat, or could it be
the black and long and curly hair seen from a distance as if it belonged to someone else,
naked arms curved on top of the hat, a necklace, jewelry, other luxury to be noticed, or
did it come from the swinging curves of other movement,
not the necklace,
less the hat I used to have, a black one, large, or did it come from the music maybe,
from the wine, from the porc in front of me, from the greens flavoured with olive oil,
from the music maybe and the exalted, joyous voices on the stream of a warm and exotic tune, or,
later maybe, people turning round and round, the handclapping, male and female voices,
the exalted excitement, truly exalted,
but without that little grey hat. The regular excitement, I must admit. But
without that little grey hat. This is horror, isn't it. The black girl growls, shouts. Someone with an intellectual gaze stares at the victim.
Partly because of the glasses, partly because of the black girl.