It is a round night. The girls are writhing in white sheets and the men are counting their days among the bottles somewhere in the taverns. Our writer, also a man, gone for counting also has left his book on the table opened somewhere at random. The book personage was warming himself at the yellow light of the lamp that seemed to be left on for him. With closed eyes, laid on one side he is thinking at a sunset somewhere near a still sea, at a warm and salty smell, fine sand and a soft breeze that kept him from falling asleep. The lamp blinked and he opened his eyes frightened. Without hands, without legs, only one ear and a head the personage started to roll from one page to another searching for a light that doesn’t blink. By mistake he jumped out of the book and fell on the table. He woke up hardly but he realized that he is out of the book and he started to look around. A table, a lamp, a chair, all was so complex and different from what he knew. He took the book between his teeth and jumped off the table. He passed near the door of another room; first he saw the fallen sheet and then the girl who was sleeping naked with her arms opened. He didn’t make any connection between the girl and the moans that he used to hear sometimes, late in the night, through the book’s opening. He walked farther, went out in the street and slinked among those who were returning too early from the taverns, that were no longer able to count and considered him a hallucination. He passed near the coloured shop windows with stoned women well dressed, with all kinds of hats and umbrellas. It drew his attention half of a stoned man dressed in blue with strange eyes and showing with his left hand something on the other side of the street. He looked straight there and saw an iron door above which it was written with lights: “The Blue Bar”. He entered there. Inside men seating at the tables talking, playing with the glasses among the empty bottles and full ashtrays, over burned matches. The head jumped on a chair, spat the book on the table and said:
“Good evening, gentlemen!”
The others stared at him.
“What’s with you, ugly? How did you get in here?”
He left his tears on the chair, took his book between his teeth again and got out quickly. He looked again at that half of man and said:
“Oh, dear! Oh, God! Why did you make me like this?”
He walked farther on the street, left behind the iron door, the coloured shop windows and entered the park. Many trees, many flowers, somewhere another head with another book was staying on a bench and watching the sky. Our personage came closer, the book fell from his mouth and he was impressed.
“What a blond hair! What a nose! May I watch the sky with you, beautiful?”
“You may!”
He jumped on the bench near the blond hair that lights his ear and makes him quiver. He cannot see any star, only the moon that hanged its rays on a withered branch above them.
“May I call you honey?”
“Ok!” answered the other head and turned her blue eyes towards him.
“Put your nose in my ear, honey and leave it like that until day break!”
She touched his ear with her nose and made him drop a tear that fell into the open book near the bench. The moon took its rays from the branch and moved a bit to the right. Another voice could be heard from somewhere nearby.
“A woman more beautiful than my honey does not exist, and if she does I won’t like her.”
Our writer was taking a walk, talking to himself.
“You!? What are you doing here!?”
He took the book from near the bench and closed it suddenly crushing the head between the pages. The blond head started to cry and the writer with the book vanished in night.