When I first met Francis Bonnefoy, he was painting a portrait. Alone. Of whom I hadn't the faintest idea. There was quite a distance between us so I couldn't see very clearly. But it was, for sure, in watercolors.
He was sitting under an old sakura tree, while some pink petals had fallen onto his silky blond hair. I didn't think he knew it. His intent gaze was fixed on his drawing. It was pleasantly quiet. You could only hear the whispers of the breeze. I guessed it was why he had chosen that place.
Had I not been so busy, I would have stayed a little longer. Yet I needed to hurry home. After attending a five-hours-straight literature lecture, I was completely fatigued. I let a silent sigh escape my weary body. It was my last year studying in Japan, and time was particularly precious.
So I just passed by. Neither of us said a word.
The second time I met him at the florist's. Three days after our first encounter. Tenderly he was caressing the crimson roses with his fingertip, his violet eyes dreamy. The name card on his shirt read 'Francis Bonnefoy.' And never had I seen or heard of him before, despite my frequent visits.
'Ohayo,' he greeted me, with a think lazy French accent.
Then I knew he was a Frenchman. I smiled a little in response, and asked for the flowers I had ordered. He started humming a beautiful little tune which I couldn't recognise. And he gave me one extra rose, saying that the shop owner who was a stupid friend of his wouldn't mind at all. I thanked him, then left.
For the third time we met in my apartment. And it was terrible. When I woke up, he was sleeping soundly in my vintage armchair, naked. My wrecked brain could process nothing. I was in a mess and I only knew that I had been drunk, dead drunk, the night before. A wave of nausea swept over me and I retched painfully, tears welled up in my swollen eyes. First things first, I muttered.
So I tried to clothe the other apparently drunk being. And after his several attempts to resist, I, out of impulse, decided to dump him in the rubbish bin outside my house, to get rid of him at once. Strictly following the Japanese rules, I remembered myself deeming him flammable.
Haven't seen him since.
Sometimes I think of what happened to him later with guilt. But I can't waste the valuable time to appease my conscience in a futile investigation. I have essays to rush before graduation. After all, I believe we won't even meet again.
Will we?