(Probably a true story.) A boy and a girl used to write their messages on the white wall of a shop on Émile Zola street. They never met, neither did they remember how they came to chat. The discussion would naturally go on and on undisturbed by overlookers through the most personal of subjects until one day. On that day when both came by at their specifically and individually predestined hour only to see that new paint had covered entirely their whole well threaded conversation. It seemed to be the end of what they had together. It seemed to be over. It had to start all over again. A few days of silence occurred, but finally it was the boy who faced the white wall again. With his hand raised up against the wall, he baldly put a question in simple words, Would you be my wife? The answer did not come as quick he expected and, by when the heat of the question dropped down to the numbing cold of a plastic mannequin, the answer was stamped on the wall. It was NO.
