Sensitive & intelligent.

Sample Reading:

Unplugged:

     Life doesn't turn exactly the way we want it to. There are clever replies I rehearsed, and smart one-liners I read on ads posted in a crowded New-York subway car. But none of them was fitting you. I rotated the hat on my head. Before that summer I never wore a hat, but now I needed one to hide my face, to hide my emotions when I think of you. Now, when I ride those New-York subway trains, I don't bother to read those posted clever lines. I buy the paper and read the news, cover to cover, attentively. This morning, when I dressed up, I noticed that I gained a bit of weight around my waist. Weight I should loose, just in case I see you. I remember sitting on that beach. French women and French men were easy to identify. The women, pretty, fit, fashion conscious and very well dressed, very elegant, even when the outfit amounts to a pretty bikini bathing suit and a small handkerchief tied around their hair. But what amazed me was the fact that the French men were also well dressed and well groomed, to the point of being too pretty, one may even think them narcissist. Even when all they wore was a pair of shorts, the pair of shorts was something to see, three different matching colors, not too flashy, not too dull, and a zigzag lace in front, not too bold, yet enough to turn a head. Whether it's another male's head or another female's. The haircut and shaving was medium short, with distinct sharp and squarely shaved angles. If Elvis were alive he'd change a haircut.

    Your friend, on the beach, told you I was looking at you. She said it in French presuming I don't understand her. That's when you turned around to look at me. Your friend caught me off guard. She was right. I was looking at you. Like one turns to look at Torvill and Dean skating to Bolero on Ice; like one looks at a little cat sitting up; like one stares at the bare canvas underneath Van-Gogh raging strokes of a brush; like one looks up in amazement at a rare starry night; like one looks in owe at the moon rise; like one stares at the blue Mediterranean kiss the horizon from all the way to the left till all the way to the right. When I looked at you I did not realize I was looking; I did not notice the pretty lime bikini that was tied with butterfly knots on each side of your hips. I did not notice the little handkerchief you tied neatly around your hair. I did not notice the lightly tanned white of your skin. No, all that I noticed only after your friend woke me up. I turned my head to bury my face in the book I was reading. Now that your friend said what she said, out loud, I couldn't possibly start a conversation in French. I better pretend that I didn't understand what she said. It was not like I had the courage to open my mouth and speak up. Meeting women hasn't come easy to me. Almost always I had to work to get what I wanted. And that's even harder when most of the time it's inside a crowded dark nightclub. But you, on that beach, was different. It was broad daylight, and I didn't come to see you, or anyone, really. I came to wash my eyes in the blue salty water of the Mediterranean. I came to stare at the blue till a picture formed in my mind, so when I stand in a crowded New-York train, on the way to work, when I close my eyes, I could recall some of that blue. I must tell you, it doesn't work. When I stand in that crowded train and close my eyes I don't see the blue of the Mediterranean. No. I see your face looking at me, while the early afternoon sun, behind your head, was blinding my eyes. And the color that registered in my brain, the color of that summer on that beach was not the color of the water in late August sun; the color of that summer, for me, is the color of lime.