He was cross-legged in the square of Portovenere. Sitting on the slate. The round, fifty, wrapped by a narrow and short yellow shorts. Calling for the old country. From time to time with the right hand stroked her long hair curls. In the other an ordinary phone. The head shock in fits and starts to show off her long neck tanned. He wore inside the wreckage of a beauty past. Unbearable to look old tiger. Seemed to scream to the world "Here I am, I came to the world to build your birds into the sky." Before me, the easiest prey. Eighty I stared for a moment, then made a face and touched the package. He died by the desire to fuck.
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