After about an hour, I pick up the phone and look for a CD for the return trip. I am interrupted by a cyclist passing close to me. He is standing on the pedals, he looks like a spastic mechanic intent on working with the engine to increase its displacement. His ass comes out of his shorts because they are ripped. What was the saying? "Better a healthy ass in broken pants, than vice versa". I do not remember. I decide to go back. "It's downhill now," I think. And while my legs are stiff with fatigue, I see in front of me a branch dangling from a wall. I take it in my hand to move it, step under it and stop a little further on to look at the view. The air is clean, I'm surrounded by greenery. But my brain only suggests the image of a toilet. I smell the scent of flowers, of vegetation, of perfumed stuff and that olfactory mix seems to me one of those sprays that you spray after you take a shit, one of those things that look like a cross between an apology press conference called by the boss and a prodigy of chemistry. And in short, I'm tired, so I head briskly home. As soon as I breathe a sigh of relief, I'm back where I've been safe for the past two months. I smell the smells I know, the pheromones of my records, my books, my stuff. Just before I go to take a shower, the doorbell rings. I scream that I'm going. It is the delivery of the shopping. In front of me is a sweaty guy. He pants, coughs, puts down bags, baskets of water. Sweat drops everywhere. I am looking for the mask but I no longer have it. He hands me the machine to pay with the ATM. He runs a hand over his sweat-rotted forehead, then touches his ass and blows. "Uff, how hot!" he says snorting. I smile unconvinced. And as he tears up the receipt to hand it to me, I think the world is everywhere.
THE DARK MATTER 