The rose scent and the great emptiness

TIf you had told them that a few months ago, they would have laughed at you, but, frankly, they still preferred the smell of cigarettes. To that: to great silence and the scent of rose. They still preferred to hear his forgotten, ulcerated little dog barking in the hallway and his red retractable leash trailing on the tiles, adding noise to the noise.

With the clouds of smoke billowing from under his door, that had been the first sign and, like all first signs, he had been swept away. Four times a day, Mr. S., second floor left, went for a walk with his dog, a small black and white spotted bulldog with one eye that looked like glass, carrying him in his arms, in a ball, like a newborn. . No one had ever seen this dog walk.

And, four times a day, he came upstairs, tried to open his door, got worked up about the lock. She’s blocking, that filthy door, but help me, finally. Overriding aggressiveness and dry arrogance, they helped him, you have to call a locksmith, Mr. S., before turning on his heels and rushing into the elevator, called by the outside world and the threatening weather. to burn if they didn’t move their asses a little. And Monsieur S. would slam his door, insulting them a little, forgetting, once again, the little spotted bulldog in the hallway.

The smell of cigarettes and garbage bags

All of them had just said to themselves that the gentleman on the second floor on the left was fighting more and more about living together. The proof: his compulsive purchases of stuff online. The poor guys on bicycles crossing the city in the rain to indulge him with his plastic whims, poor Mademoiselle C, the young caretaker of the building with the look of a reality TV candidate, nail prostheses always hyper-inspired and ponytails. high lacquered horse, who spent his days receiving and delivering his Amazon parcels.

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Nobody had seen, little by little, neither the brain which becomes liquid, nor the body, never shown to medicine, which lets go. They had preferred to curse, to complain, how do you expect us to be able to rent our apartments on Airbnb? And for some, the most harassed, they had kicked his door as they passed. The smell of cigarettes, the garbage bags hanging from their door handles, sometimes the dog’s excrement on one of their doormats. The calls in the middle of the night because the shoes on the floor kept him awake. OK, it seems that he is a great professor, a researcher, but who does he think he is, frankly?

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