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L'Instant, of Guerlain. In that moment, all I really wanted was an instant. She took me out of sadness and the seriousness in an instant. I had never seen someone demonstrate perfume like that. I think it wasn't part of the demonstration she having looked back, to me, and having said "L'Instant...". I don't think it was part of the demonstration all that that happened from there on. The instant. L'Instant. In french it's prettier. In Paris even more.

Free Shop. Charles De'Gaule. L'Instant, of Guerlain. She passed close to me. The chick was only neck. Hair tied in such a rebel way in an updo that seemed to have been done in a rush, in an instant. An studied instant. Carefully disheveled, some hair strings draining through the nape of her neck. She should not have looked back, to me. Everything could have stayed at the starting instant. I have serious problems with time measurements: instants and moments, days, hours... What time is it? How long did it last? I don't know...

Suddenly, I was already at the end of the neck. Suddenly it's a mark in time. Not moment nor instant. At that moment, all spine was neck, that ended in the instant the things change name. I never knew very well what I wanted, but at that moment, I wanted an instant. L'Instant. This Guerlain is good with marketing.

I should have controlled myself, but it was her fault, of the instant, L'Instant. The people in the store could have stopped me beforehand. I have problems with time measurements, I don't even use a watch. After she repeated L'Instant and I bit her nape, indeed there was no turning back, but all time in the world to evitate the after. But I didn't know of the after. In that instant everything turned into an urgency. She could have ran away, hit me, but no. She bent her back and looked at me with an immediate desire, of moment, in an instant. She didn't torn the whole body, only the head. Bit the inferior lip and didn't quite repeat "L'Instant" because I occupied her mouth with mine. It was time to stop. The people at the store should know it wouldn't go right. They should be experienced with this stuff. Or were we inédit? Inédit is another space in time, a set of happenings that didn't happen before.

They weren't anymore just a few disheveled hair strings. All of it was disheveled. Dishevelment is a crazy thing, even more in the nape. The dress wouldn't let understand well the border between the back and the nape. The chick had a never ending neck, but I should have stopped at half not to make the passer-by's terrified. Passer-by, a word only used when writing. At least I think. I never stopped someone saying "Hey, passer-by!".

Now she was already facing me, but I couldn't see her. I can't see very well from close. Hypermetrophy. She probably had 5 hands. I had seven. All of 'em were between her neck and legs. Two holding each side of the butt. She could have not corresponded. She could have ran when she looked at me for the second time and saw the dishevelment in my eyes, the strangeness of the passer-by's. She ran to the wrong side, to my side. Happened what happened. But the police was exaggeration anyway. A passer-by was the one who called. I knew it... passer-by son of a bitch!

Anyway, who told her to moan so softly when I bit her nape? Where is the professionalism? When everything started I was with my hands busy. When finished ditto, but with something else. Whoever planned that dress was already thinking of dirtiness. Two handles and that's it. Tchum, tchum, floor. No bra and with a panty that doesn't count. But she didn't need to bend her back. And I didn't have to leave all my stuff in the floor and kneel to follow the trail from the neck down. She had a sign in the shoulder. If it wasn't the sign, everything could have been evitated. That's what I told the sheriff.

I was biting her butt in the exact moment the police arrived. A good part of the audience at the airport was clapping and protesting against the police. I love Paris. Liberté! Liberté! There was people who thought we were in a movie. Wrong. We were living an instant. L'Instant. Instants are to be rough, surprising. The difference between an instant and a moment is the surprise. An instant is an inédit moment and romantic.

I didn't see her anymore after she had already offended the whole police at the airport, of Paris, of France, of the world. "Merde" was the lightest bad word she was pronouncing. They freed me a few moments before my plane would depart. After last call. Still almost lost my flight because she had bitten the inferior lip again, this time mine. Goodbye is another mark in time. She bit vigorously to guarantee I would not forget. I still have the scar. She marked the instant. L'Instant. This shouldn't be done. All that much shouldn't be done... unless in Paris. I love Paris.

Author: Cesar Brod (http://www.linkedin.com/in/cesarbrod)