"Merci, Dash".
“Bonjour. La dame avec qui j’ai ete hier soir,
l’avez-vous vue?” He asked the men on the bench, breathlessly.
“Oui, oui.” The chap on the left said as both men
pointed toward the town square.
“Merci, merci.” He called over his shoulder as he
ran.
Leaping up the steps at the far end of the promenade
three at a time he continued his pursuit. A bus was standing at the stop on the
other side of the street and there, visible through the windows, he spotted her
walking slowly up the aisle.
“Fuck.”
A car horn blasted and tyres skidded on dusty
tarmac a moment before he ran into the road, stopping him in his tracks and
forcing him to step back. He apologized to the driver who, in return, hurled
Gallic obscenities at him as, on the other side of the street, the bus driver
engaged first gear and with a hiss of the air brakes slowly set off, revealing
the empty bench upon which she had recently shed tears.
“Fuck.” He repeated, his vocabulary now somewhat
limited by his anguish. Taking his phone from his pocket he scrolled though his contacts and pressed dial.
“Bonjour, Michelle, bonjour. Listen, I need you.”
Continue to next chapter.
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