Il est trop tard (the narrative) — 47

J’avoue j’en ai bave pas vous, mon amour, avant d’avoir eu vent de vous, mon amour. Ne vous deplaise, en dansant la Javanaise, nous nous aimions le temps d’une chanson.* — La Javanaise, Serge Gainsbourg

“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music,” the quote by Nietzsche came to Aimee’s mind as she saw the facial expression of most people who were rushing down the street, trying to get wherever they were heading quickly as the rain poured and the wind blew. They were dancing, she and Thomas, to the same music, despite the fact that the only sound to be heard was the pouring rain. He smiled at her, twirled her, and caught her in his embrace. They kissed, the rain disappeared, the wind disappeared, the people disappeared. They kissed some more.

*I admit I went through hell, didn’t you my love? Before I met you, my love. Whether it pleases your or not, while dancing the Javanaise,
we loved each other for the length of a song.

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