Cigarette in beak, shirtless, sunglasses on his forehead, he readjusts his gray jeans, held by a barely visible belt under his stomach. I admire her tan, a perfect chocolate brown.
I admit to being a bit jealous. Being a cyclist, mine stops at mid-biceps and mid-thigh. White ass, the rest turns tomato red following barely five minutes uncovered. A sketch.
The arrival of my lemonade snaps me out of my thoughts. Seated in a cafe in downtown Neuchâtel, I am unfaithful to my office for an followingnoon. In front of me, technicians are busy.
I take advantage of breaks to let my mind wander. I invent scenarios without tail, head or logic. Who is this Hulk Hogan? Where does this lookalike of the former American wrestler come from? What did he do in life?
The Nifff (Neuchâtel International Fantastic Film Festival) is supposed to start the next day. At this stage, the Open Air site at the Place des Halles looks more like a pile of scrap metal than a cinema ready to accommodate several hundred spectators.
A fact that does not seem to stress our soberly dressed man for four cents. Lighting up a new cigarette with his free hand, the other being busy handling a control, he nonchalantly rises in the air, legs crossed on his basket.
I see him as a former member of the Foreign Legion, lost in a jungle dodging enemy bullets. Then, I imagine him returning to civilian life, wanting to satisfy his cultural impulses. So why not become a show technician?
In short. I would do well to finish my article.
