The Big Sleep

Really, I didn’t understand that story at all.
Mademoiselle Red was already sleeping, beautiful and redly*.
On the screen, Bogart did his Marlowe and Bacall was falling for him. Or maybe was it the other way around?
Outside, Rome was playing it low key and quite frankly, there was nothing to brag about.
Soon, it would be tomorrow, a capuccino, a croissant, a newspaper. Serene to a certain degree, I will wait for Mademoiselle Red to come back from work. We’ll go and have a drink on Campo de’Fiori, then we’ll hesitate a while between pasta and pizza. I’ll tell her she looks beautiful.
But in the meantime, the impenetrable plot was unfolding in front of my tired eyes. A gunshot vaguely woke me up. I was fighting to stay awake, but not too hard. Since it is that time of the day when your head gets filled with crazy thoughts, i took the opportunity to score a goal in the world cup final. Overwhelmed by joy, i missed the next half hour of the film. This time, there was no doubt that i was utterly lost, all men were wearing hats.
A bit later, these unequivocal words on the screen: THE END
Ok, I promise i’ll watch it all over again tomorrow.

* I borrow this expression to Richard Brautigan, whose character slept blondly.