>be successful Italian businessman
>think I'll drive the vespa to work today
>usually take the gondolas but mom woke me up too late
>at this rate I'll get to my pizzeria just in time for the 1pm breakfast rush.
>smooth ride to work, missed the traffic- all the gypsies are at the leaning tower of pizza already
>plus found euro coin under the vespa while checking for bombs (mafia has been fighting refugee gangs lately)
>only 19 more euros, should have enough to pay the health inspector when he comes by after siesta
Another day has come. Monsieur groans and opens his eyes, surveying his surroundings. Sunlight is streaming into the room through the half-closed curtains, bathing his boudoir in the faint golden glow of the Parisian daytime. His mademoiselle is still fast asleep beside him, satin bed sheets sprawled clumsily across her. He gazes across to the clock on the opposite wall. It is already afternoon.
Bleary eyed, monsieur rolls out of bed, nude, and stumbles to the window. He pulls open the frame, lights up a Gauloises, and leans out into the fresh air for a smoke, displaying his naked form for all to see in the streets below. A warm summer breeze strokes his unwashed skin, carrying with it the scent of fresh bread and pastries from a nearby boulangerie. The daylight is bright, giving the beautiful streetscape a life of its own, the golden terraces glimmering, and the bustling pavements brimming with people, driven not by work, but by the desire to enjoy all of life’s pleasures. In the distance, monsieur hears the faint sounds of an accordion, wheezing a tune that echoes the enduring sentiments of sweet Paris.
Monsieur finishes his cigarette, drops it out of the window and steps back into the room. He stumbles into the kitchen, stroking his goatee, and rummages through the cupboards. The search becomes ever more frantic, but no, it is futile, they are all gone. He runs back to the bedroom, pulls the sheets off his beloved mademoiselle and yells.
>>59902844
“Get up! Get up ma cherie! We ‘ave run out of pains au chocolat!” he shouts, whilst pulling on a black and white striped V-neck.
“Sacré bleu!” cries mademoiselle. She is already upright, this distressing news startling her into sobriety. “Zis cannot be! We must leave at once!”
The two finish dressing themselves and rush downstairs, where their tandem bicycle awaits them. They hop aboard, and pedal out onto the roads of Paris, weaving in and out recklessly, between the chaotic traffic, and many piles of decaying dog shit. The couple head towards their favourite bakery, along the banks of the Seine, where they chain their bike to a lamppost and step inside.
“Bonjour!” they greet the shopkeeper in unison.
“Bonjour” he echoes unenthusiastically, glaring at the two lovebirds that have interrupted his afternoon. “What do you want?”
“Two of your finest pains au chocolat, s’il vous plait”
The shopkeeper grumbles under his breath, fetches the food and drops it abruptly on the counter. Monsieur pays, and the couple stroll out into the street, where they eat their pastries and watch the river rush by. A group of American tourists walk up to them and ask for directions. Mademoiselle pretends that she doesn’t understand what they say, despite her fluent English, and monsieur simply stares directly into their eyes until they leave.
>>59902901
The pair cycle into the city, lock up their tandem on la Rue de la Croissant, and enjoy an afternoon of traditional French indulgence. They pass the time shopping for berets, sharing a romantic baguette at a café by the Louvre, and harshly judging the performance of a street mime. The day passes so quickly, so fluently, that monsieur loses track of time. Upon looking at his watch he gasps.
“Zut alors! I am late for my show at ze art gallerie!”
“But you should not go. You should stay ‘ere avec moi, and continue zis perfect day togezzer” pleads mademoiselle.
“Non, I cannot. I must sell another painting, ma cherie, for I am almost out of money, and wizzout ze money, zere can be no more pain au chocolat!” explains monsieur. “You should come wiz me, my sweet. For you are my muse, my one true love.”
The two share an intimate kiss in the sunset and run hand in hand along the boulevard towards the gallery. They rush inside, gasping for breath, and greet the patrons of the establishment. Monsieur makes small talk with prospective buyers, discussing his thought processes, his concepts and his inspirations behind the work. All seems to be going well, several parties are interested, when all of a sudden, a deathly quiet spreads across the room. In the doorway stands a man, dressed all in black, face long, gaunt and wrinkled, weathered over decades of unscrupulous cruelty. His thin white hair shines beneath the halogen bulbs, and his cold grey eyes bore straight into monsieur’s soul through his small frameless spectacles, perched precariously on the end of his nose. Here stands an infamous man in the world of Parisian high art: Le Collecteur.
>>59902942
Le Collecteur saunters into the room, inspecting each canvas one by one, all the while making no sound but the thunk thunk of his boot heels on the concrete. Minutes pass like this, monsieur and mademoiselle frozen in place, waiting for the torture to end. Le Collecteur ends his tour and steps close to monsieur’s face, so close that their noses almost touch. A single bead of sweat rolls down monsieur’s forehead as Le Collecteur begins to speak.
“Your work, it is…” Le Collecteur pauses, his breath filling the room with the smell of putrid old garlic, “…bourgeois.”
A scream erupts from the corner of the room, where mademoiselle has collapsed to the ground and burst into tears. Monsieur rushes over to comfort her, his career in tatters, while Le Collecteur stalks out of the door and into the dark street outside.
“It matters not my sweet,” says monsieur, comforting his beloved mademoiselle, “my career is over but we still ‘ave each ozzer. We are free. Nobody can stop us as long as we are togezzer”
Mademoiselle stops sobbing for a moment and looks up into his eyes. There is a warmth there, a sense of safety that she has never felt with anyone before. She clambers to her feet and the two rush out into the Paris night in each others arms. They kiss passionately in the moonlight and make love at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.
Monsieur’s wife calls several times, but gets through only to voicemail.
27 anios de soledad
>>59902510
>You were not born in a quaint Italian town
>you will never marry a qt Italian who will cheat on you but still loves you
Why even live?
>>59903178
C U C K
U
C
K
Maybe you should move to Europe after all my nu-male friend
>>59903225
>he's not man enough to fuck other women
>>59902844
>>59902942
Why so mean? I assume that you goys are jealous. Because it's easier for me to think that.
>>59903642
Did you run out of pain au chocolat?
>>59903775
Nah, I have 4 of them in stock.
What do you eat, usually, for breakfast?
>>59903904
Bananas.
