Electric Toothbrush Mumbai

(2)

I did not have to be left to win the favor of Rebecca - the owner of the Africa Tiff "- and its clients. Neither have had any role to play. I believed that I could be myself with them. They also Poitin and old. Not forget that one. A true phenomenon my neighbor below. All these

Saturday afternoon of this type we found all to remake the world. A sacred playground where, incidentally Rebecca cut our hair. A Poitin and me, for others - Ms. Toure or Ms. Bonaventure - was engaged instead to add them. Almost a style and color for each week. New faces but still the same characters. These reunions were

even become a ritual. The one (or one of the few to do less pathetic) when sociability of my week. These weeks at the jerk who march at the speed of light even when there is nothing exceptional. Sometimes I'd like to stop time to have more.

I found myself in these little women full of life. Always smiling, shape ("banana and fishing" as they say Poitin): this was disconcerting. This ability to be good or at least appear as such, any time, at all hours of the day. We "Europeans", the sadness, when one feels, one can not help but wear it on our face. Unable to do otherwise.
"The African" (we called out in this way with Poitin when we wanted to ask them a trick by playing slave humor ... particular, there's not to say) keep everything in it, and the brightness of their smiles, their laughter intensity of protecting them.
So yes I found myself in them. Not that I had also this particular faculty - I'm certainly rather depressing about 30 minutes at least three to four times a day! - But as they had my shields: the humor and swagger. Those who do not know me take me forever to crank wanker and service. A pretentious bragging.
Except I'm as much a pretentious clown that Rebecca is a woman happy and fulfilled. It was therefore natural that we get along good!

Before the last few months that is saying something we did not maintain at all what kind of relationship. Me, I merely make an appointment by Rebecca timidly address as vous. As for herself, she shipped it in fifteen minutes on every break, just long enough that I had to admire me in the four large mirrors of the show. There were hardly the only thing that interested me when I was on one of its seats roses. Look at me. Love had passed me, overwhelmed, as to take away my natural sociability, my ability to open myself to others as I had been obsessed by the relational ... one person! The only one that mattered. He took it not be there so I finally deigns to look at them. So I finally removed this apparent superiority that made me keep your chin up under the pretext that I was living a love story supposedly unbeatable.

Anyway, I hate to go get a haircut. Besides the unbearable fumes of lacquer and conditioner, I do not know where I get this "hate". Maybe I was attacked by a hairdresser out of school when I was little. In addition to the hair salon is not it one of the places further from the truth of the world?! A place where sometimes full of hypocrisy after the tabloids have you put in the hands not to When you find that your ear is messed around, we ask you a series of existential questions on the pretext that he must talk. As if your life were interested, "then you not work today? "" What you do in life? "You have how many weeks of vacation a year, you? "... A

the Africa Tiff "Instead, it gave this:

- You know Julian, Rebecca began while she clung to clear the neck Poitin, you who always speaks of love (I do it myself), I noticed that You spoke as if we were the same everywhere, as if the four corners of the world "love" meant the same thing. I reckon me not at all ... She loved

attack me that way. She knew that I had the pleasure to discuss everything and anything. And she laughed often with Mrs. and Mrs. Toure of my theatrics Bonaventure although I think they also liked me for that.

- Already j'pensais not I told you that much of love girls! (I emphasize this word always better to flatter them, I knew they liked, and this created an unusual accessory for people whose age difference was more than twenty years). To return to your question ... Oh no it was not a question, it was a peak in good and due form (I repeated this phrase often of Captain Hook in Peter Pan in Hook!), "I smile with my usual mix challenge and malice. I understand that in Africa - since it is this continent that you spoke Rebecca - we celebrate Valentine's Day for some time. And it seems that people there are addicted to Brazilian telenovelas, no? "I said to him without making him suspect that I completely bluffing. So yes, that's how I'm not saying that I like, but at this time of globalization I would say that there is a "standardization" of love!

I had tons of doing but it worked. Clients were silent. Poitin, who stood next to me, savoring the moment, thinking surely that "it was good the small. " Nobody is trying to respond to this argument embellished with a notion that I had to invent on the spot. A bit pompous and yet very effective! Before Rebecca returns to the charge:

- Because for you, for you, here in France, love exists in Africa? " Seeing the shows on TV, reading your newspaper or even listening to you like, you would not think it is possible to love in Africa. Because Africa is for you what? It is poverty, famine, NGOs, children who eat rice, women who are heating water, and men who will collect firewood, right? And also it is AIDS. So love, you do not even allow people the opportunity to believe it can exist in African countries ...

I knew she was right. However, I had to find a parade not to admit openly and get out with minimal class. But Poitin, awkward, thinking have to come save me, entered the conversation. To sidestep the issue of geography, he preferred to raise the question of time. The fact that we do not like the same way at twenty to fifty years. Or in the same way today there several decades. Let there be no more patient. We want everything right away, without sacrifice. Whether you get married for nothing and we separated for so little ... I

a huge list of objections and disagreements with him but he had to get by so I n'eu not want to contradict him. In addition - and perhaps the coup by the sudden lack of challenge - I began to do more listening at all! My head was elsewhere. I did not know what. Something was amiss. So I occupied my mind to go through the living room walls. Wigs Motley pinned in the corners and edges to all these frameworks satin filled with family photos or Bob Marley. These shades of bright colors with the red tiles and green apple that sparkled with more beautiful summer.

Then my eyes met under the clock. That's what was wrong! I jumped to the astonishment of the girls and Poitin who saw that I was not raised to better support his argument.

- I'm sorry, I gotta go, I forgot to do something. I see you later anyway. Rebecca and thank you for cutting ! Without

they have had time to utter a word, I quickly gained the back door which gave access to the stairwell.


How could I pass the time? For three weeks, I set my mind yet, my desires, my entire body even for these daily appointments.

And if it had started without me, without waiting for me? Maybe she decided, given my lack of any up?

15.30. It is easy to calculate, I was thirty minutes late. Pray for me that she expected.

I climbed the stairs more faster than ever. Why live in an apartment on the 2nd floor me?! Ah ... I'm not careful. There are more steps than I thought. Maybe he is just simply more than usual. One day I should take the time to count them.

I tumbled into my apartment (18m2 rather call it a "room" but hey I have no time to introduce the debate), taking great care taken to make the most noise in my opening thus it is to hear me go. I hoped she sees even in the rush almost forced proof I was conscious of being late.

usual smell of coffee and cold wet towel filled the room. I began to open the window overlooking the street. There was not a sound. I was really starting to believe that this time it it would not be there. Stress
me unfold my click-clack of a clumsy gesture that brought down my lamp and my alarm clock Chev. I did not care, I wanted to reach the cover who was housed inside. And guitar in it.

I was about to leave when his sudden gushes and finally came reassure me. It came from the apartment next door. It sounded like a signal. She was there. She stayed. Then I heard the window open in his lap. I had to hurry. She was about to begin.

I folded my feverishly sofa bed and sat me in trying to calm the rhythm of my breathing. What it was hot ...

No sound had come to appear since the first. Then we could distinguish the sound of my jeans brushing the hollow portion of the instrument, and the caress of my palm on the handle, immediately surrounded by my fingers long and thin in that their search strings match.

After a brief glance at the wall where the sound was released a few moments earlier, I threw. I improvise a song. I wanted as much rhythm as familiar to me not to miss. As and when I played, I felt drops of sweat to take possession of my shirt. I actually lived as an inner strength. I felt that my feet no longer touched the floor and my window would soon turn into the funnel into the sky. I could not help to fix these posters and wall. I imagined behind it. I saw her closing eyes.

And then, at the end of the song - not that I do indeed express the finish - I n'eu to wait a dozen seconds to get my answer. A second piece fusa the other side of the wall.

now standing, but slightly bent forward, I pressed my left ear on plasterboard - this thing between her and me - and handed it right to my window. I closed eyelids. Always. It took me the other. And I managed to scrounge all the best sounds that managed to reach me. Recognizing

somewhat song - more suave and graceful than the previous - I took my guitar with a firm hand that does not come without more trouble me that ounce of excitement that always characterizes me at first. I timer until the approach of the chorus to fill myself up the tempo. While tapping the tip of my right hand the body of the instrument. Shortly after, I began to accompany him. The agreements then succeeded in the manner of waves reaching the shore soft and natural. The music had invaded the entire floor as we were synchronous, we and our two guitars.

For more than half an hour, and while I adopted ever a new position - standing or sitting against the wall and ankles crossed - the rhythm of songs, they chained themselves without downtime. Each shade of his own emotion, they drew a shadow of complicity surrounding. The harmony was such that one might think that sounds rhymed them. I shuddered. The real adrenaline rush. It was as if someone planted small needles of happiness in the back or I was walking on a bed of nails. Even

separated by the wall, I felt that she and I were motivated by the same feelings. I imagined us side by side, staring into his eyes, almost hand in hand, singing aloud the words that we just whisper softly, on our own.

And then it all stopped and I can not really explain how. As always, there was no verbal expressions of joy or exchange of words likely to disturb the atmosphere and the silence that seized the new part. It's simple, our guitars have said everything.

(...)

The result from Friday, December 19