They're all so busy picking up their bags, shaking the crumbs out of their clothes, slung their bags over their shoulders, that I doubt anyone on the bus saw me weaving along the sidewalk through a crowd. at least thirty smiling Japanese Businessmen, each wearing the same navy blue blazer with a gold badge on the chest pocket. Finally, I arrived at the corner. Yes. He is here. He sinks his teeth into a big red apple and kicks it into the air. Then another apple and yet another, and another. Laughter breaks out among the audience on the sidewalk. The apples spin around him as if they have a life of their own, his hands are just take-off platforms. Me did he notice in the front row of the curious? Her eyes—grey-blue eyes full of secrets and surprise—light up in flashes as they pass me. 
I wonder what he sees on my face. Do I have the kind of smile he likes? Now in his dexterous fingers, a pair of scissors begins to cut a rope, cut, cut until he tosses the rope in the air like a chopped snake and the audience applauds because the pieces of cut rope again form a single piece. Suddenly he rushes through traffic like a ballet dancer, cars brake inches away from him, and he reaches for the clouds and grabs an invisible rope in the sky which he lowers, one hand at a time, face flushed and sweaty, huffing and cursing, a humble look of apology at the stopped cars, while Horns are sounding angry and people are giggling. His limbs and torso seem completely boneless as he climbs back onto the sidewalk and begins to mimic a fisherman unable to retrieve anything from the waves of traffic until a large beast is caught in his line and almost drowns it. Then he becomes a waiter piling dishes and glasses on a tray so much that he can hardly lift it, and stumbling under the weight of the tray, he collapses flat on his back. It's his silence that grabs me. Her eyes, lips and eyebrows are so mobile, and her fingers shape the air into mesmerizing shapes. His face painted white so austere, terrifying, violent in rage or poetic in pain, seems to promise a world of imagination and mystery. At the end he greets the audience, and drops to the waist like a rag doll, his legs giving way beneath him. The audience which begins to scatter grants him some applause. He pops off his black hat which swirls and falls into the palm of his hand, and he holds it out for the quest, his mischievous eyes gleaming framed by the mane of his flamboyant hair. An elegant white-haired man throws a coin into the black hat. A mannered young girl with a high hairstyle tosses a coin. A square-jawed young executive flips a coin. A six-year-old girl, pushed by her mother, throws her a coin. The coins clink against each other in the black hat, there are not too many of them. The audience disperses, apart from me. But the boy doesn't seem to see me. He shrugs his shoulders, empties his hat, shakes the coins, and stuffs them in his pocket. For the first time, I notice that his cheeks are sunken and I wonder if he has enough to eat. I tap him on the shoulder as he gathers his magician's gear. Half turned, he glances at me over his shoulder. I'm holding a ten euro note. With a fierce gaze of concentration, he transforms his left hand into an aeroplane that spins, dives and loops, swooping down on the euro and jerking it off between his fingers—eye over his shoulder. I'm holding a ten euro note. With a fierce gaze of concentration, he transforms his left hand into an aeroplane that spins, dives and loops, swooping down on the euro and jerking it off between his fingers—eye over his shoulder. I'm holding a ten euro note. With a fierce gaze of concentration, he transforms his left hand into an aeroplane that spins, dives and loops, swooping down on the euro and jerking it off between his fingers. 

“I liked your number. "Can I call you Pocahontas!" Is it just the playfulness that pierces through her voice that makes me feel like I've been invited to a place I've never been before? His eyes in mine smile and he says, "Agent X 4 Z is calling HQ Enter HQ!" The message for tonight is A trip to the moon for the blue mouse. I repeat: A trip to the moon for the blue mouse. Each of us stares at the other, while the people around us flow like the waves of a river over two pebbles. I know he's waiting for me to say something. I've never felt so weird in my entire life, looking into a boy's blue-grey eyes without the slightest embarrassment. It's as if we had known each other in another life, a thousand years ago, and we don't need to talk because there is no barrier between us. I feel like we've taken root in the cracks in the sidewalk — sort of — like each of us is reaching out to each other with our eyes, until suddenly the sound of a car horn rings out and reminds me of my classmates, Mrs Garfield and Matt. I take a step away from him, but he touches my arm and miraculously a white card appears between his fingers. The map passes from him to me. It reads another with my eyes until suddenly the sound of a car horn rang out and reminded me of my classmates, Mrs Garfield and Matt. I take a step away from him, but he touches my arm and miraculously a white card appears between his fingers. The map passes from him to me. It reads another with my eyes until suddenly the sound of a car horn rang out and reminded me of my classmates, Mrs Garfield and Matt. I take a step away from him, but he touches my arm and miraculously a white card appears between his fingers. The map passes from him to me. It reads: 
 

United Life is behind me. I know it won't stay there if I turn around, so I don't turn around even though every one of my molecules says, "Turn around, GABRIELA, this may be the last time you see him. Every step that takes me away from him and brings me closer to the bus seems to tear me away from an unknown danger. Why do I sense danger? A danger for me or for him? Is it because of my dream? But I know he's not really the boy in Charlie Chaplin. Dreams are dreams and reality is reality. All this is the consequence of my arrival in Paris and the fact that one day it could be here that I will make my life. Here there is art, there is fashion, there are thrills. If I don't marry Matt. And why, am I so sure that Matt will ask me? Up further, in front of the dais where the lights draw HO EL MAN A TAN, Mrs Garfield surrounded by two dozen chattering students, suitcases and duffel bags at their feet, waves his hands like a conductor trying to bring harmony to chaos. The shiny, silver bus shudders away from the sidewalk. My bag! I'm sure Matt took my suitcases out, but my bag — my bag is on the bus under my seat! I rush into the gutter, dodging a delivery van. I run past the hotel entrance, I see a jumble of images, like a series of snapshots thrown at me: Mrs Garfield pointing at me, the willing chaperone, Miss Carter, pinching her forehead between two fingers as if about to lose her lunch, Matt and Nadine chatting in sophisticated poses on the red-carpeted hotel steps, Toni sketching a sleeping drunk on the sidewalk, Nabilla plunging her hand into Herman's gift box to take a marshmallow which reminds her of her humble and immortal affection. “Stop! I yell at the bus, which spits exhaust fumes in my face. “Trisha, wait! Matt calls behind me. What amazes me is that it's only been a few moments since the bus arrived — a handful of minutes I spent watching Vic Uris perform — and that for me the special world created by Vic is a world without watches, minutes or hours, a world where a century passes in a few seconds. I catch up with the bus at a red light and drum on the front door. The door folds and opens. The driver's eyes, which I notice for the first time, are a beautiful shade of blue. "Please, I left my bag under my seat. “Of course, take your time. The driver seems so much more relaxed and friendly now, and he points his thumb at the back of the bus. I climb in. I crane my neck under the seat. My bag is nowhere in sight. All I find are a jumble of gum wrappers, candy wrappers, and the crumpled beige envelope with the letter Mrs Garfield was reading. I stuff the letter in my jacket pocket, wondering if I'll read it before giving it back to Mrs Garfield. Horns blare behind the bus. "Sorry you can't find him," the driver told me gruffly. “You just have to call your parents; they will be able to send you money. Do you need change to make a phone call?” I shake my head. " Thanks anyway. Then I find myself on the sidewalk. The driver waves at me and the bus pulls away. I feel sorry for the driver; he has a hard and boring job. I feel lost without my bag too. But the card still clutched in my fist reminds me of the magic, the secrets and the surprises I've seen in someone's eyes. Did he want me to call him? It's funny how Vic Uns reminds me of the stories Mom and Dad used to read to me — stories of princesses and witches, of magic potions, of enchanted swans, of frogs turned into princes by a kiss. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and see my bag a foot from my face, and on the other end of the bag is Matt. I feel like I've been cast in concrete. Gently he puts the strap of the bag on my shoulder. Concrete turns to jelly. “Thank you, Matt. "I thought you decided to run back to Cleveland." " " Without you? "What's going on, Trisha?" " " What about? “I've been noticing lately that sometimes when we're walking or doing whatever, all of a sudden out of the blue you're a million miles away from me. "A million miles?" No wonder my feet hurt. "You won't gain anything if you keep your feet on the ground." » I've noticed lately that sometimes while we're taking a walk or doing anything else, all of a sudden out of the blue you're a million miles away from me. "A million miles?" No wonder my feet hurt. "You won't gain anything if you keep your feet on the ground." » I've noticed lately that sometimes while we're taking a walk or doing anything else, all of a sudden out of the blue you're a million miles away from me. "A million miles?" No wonder my feet hurt. "You won't gain anything if you keep your feet on the ground." »