A pair of boots rested outside the bath door, one next to each other, as quite as a cat awaiting. The man is showering inside. Greasy boots, but not grubby, not any more. Across the door the weaken sun, as a dying old man at the end of his days, has his warm fingers laid compassionately on mirrors, panes and objects. The night is coming from red and yellow, the light is praying before bed. Next to the door, a chair, with a pair of clean pants, a fresh blue shirt and a couple of black Italian shoes. The bed stretches all the way down across the chair, insolent, seductive. The sun is dressing her in orange.
The man is now moving across the adjoining room, a hand in his back, a slight grimace on her face. There is a blessed feeling in all aches and pains after work, the good-for-today sores: the job is done. He dresses slowly, blows damped whistles. Eventually, he stops, picks the shiny shoes, looks up to them and put them on. Feels good, looks good. From the other corner, the greasy boots contemplate the scene half-heartily and shrink the shoulders: my job is done. The man is wearing perfume.
From here, all the roses blossom. A line has to be drawn; on the other side, life awaits. The man pays for the fair; later, he gets in the train. Trees and houses, lands and pieces of dark sky and shy stars, are swallowed between the rails. The carriage is an invisible hole of noise, throbbing and cracking, moving as a comet with a tired tail through the valley. The man will travel all through the night. The man is coming to see the woman.
Oh, Lord, look upon all these working people... .
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