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| | jeudi, décembre 09, 2004

Who wrote the story? It’s hard to tell. I never thought of a beginning or and end until she came to visit me. I was staring out of the kitchen window when she rang the doorbell.
I do like women in uniform. You laughed at it sometimes and you’d call out "Oh, god, how can you find that attractive. A god damn uniform."
I know it’s only appearance. But that’s what makes it fascinating. You long to know what’s underneath. And I don’t mean purely bodyworks. The individual. Behind silver buttons and ill-fitting trouwsers. Worn-out shirts that show your bra when you forgot to put a t-shirt under it.
It was late when she came round. And she wasn't alone. A big police bloke followed her like a dog, writing down everything we said into a small notebook. She apologized for disturbing that late but they were doing a second round of interviews in the apartment block with regard to the dead body. She stood near the window in the kitchen looking out and asked me where I was the night of the murder.

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