"You're Lost Little Girl" was playing on the background.
She had been dancing for the last couple of minutes completely naked.
Red lips, Red eyes and a glimmer of a long lost shine in her eyes.
She never faced me while I was sitting on the corner of the room.
Her dance was slow, a magical kind of grace.
- Did You know that he die in Paris?
- Yes - I answered her.
- You know why? - I didnt answer this one.There was no need. There are questions that only need time.
- Because dying in LA would make him a rockstar.
- And so dying in Paris makes him what?
She took a while.
- A poet I guess.
The room was an empty room, with little books that I guess she never read and with too much whisky bottles that I guess she never shared.
You could smell the filthy life that made her dance in such a sad way.
I remember looking to the clock and no hour was shown. She had ripped off the clockwise and used them as chopsticks for her three days old chinese food.
When the song came to the end, she sat on the ground and lighted a cigarette which she had kept on the back of her ear.
She looked at me for a while and I looked at her.
I could see her eyeliners going down her face, then she stood and walked over a mirror that there was next to the door and looked at the reflection for a while ...
Then...
Then I saw myself crying.