It was summer in the city, August, and its quiet nights, deserted streets.
We met through a friend. We cooked, then ate, the three of us. Andrea was tired and he fell asleep on the couch on the balcony, as D. and I were talking our way through the night.
In the morning, as she lay asleep on her belly, the sun was falling on her. I stayed there watching the blond hair on the curve of her hips, glowing, set ablaze by the light.
How long had it been since I had last woken up in a stranger's place?
We met few times, just until August ended, then went back each to our lives.
She was an artist, and one of her works involved taking pictures of thrown away shoes. So every time I see shoes on the street since then -like this morning, going to the bakery- I have a thought for her....