On Thursday August 4, 2022, shortly before 8 p.m., Ernest, in his forties, a physiotherapist, was waiting for Isabelle in front of the Théâtre de l'Atelier in Paris.
Place Charles-Dullin, there was the crowd of premieres.
Ernest had reserved for three months two places for
Le Vertige Marilyn
,
only one on stage with Isabelle Adjani.
Ernest checked his cell phone, looked at his watch for the thirteenth time, and sucked on a Rennie lozenge.
Still those bloody heartburns that so often made him irascible.
It was now 8:15 p.m. and the line was thinning, all sucked into the theatre.
Isabelle won't come anymore, Isabelle won't come, as she didn't come to their wedding;
he had never blamed her for it.
In fact, marriage would have ruined everything between them.
They lived together, together but apart, and that was fine.
Isabelle, this beautiful and frail and sublime butterfly, this healthy, amoral, disloyal, shrewd, narrow-minded, prudent, indifferent woman.
Isa, his little pharmacist...
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