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When she walked into my office, for a moment I thought that I was Philip Marlowe, Raymond Chandler's hard boiled detective. Her appearance was totally strange to the hateful 21st century, but seemed to step right out of a fifties b&w film noir movie. From the little hat that sat askance on her head and hid all of her face except for the broad sensual mouth, over the outdated skirt, down to the black stockings and high heels, she embodied the providential femme fatale. The way she sat down, crossed her legs and briefly revealed a glimpse of naked thigh above her laced stocking top, showed me that she mastered the part into the minutest detail. The slender cigarette holder in the vivid scarlet scar of her mouth completed the image. Did she dress in black because she was in mourning of because she knew it made her irresistible? I always had associated death with sex, convinced that I could only forget my finity in a women's body.

Silence and smoke filled the room, as we each thought our thoughts. I kept quiet as long as possible, postponing the inevitable moment that banal reality would burst the bubble of my fantasy. And that it would be a trivial matter, I didn't doubt a second. For me the photographing of secret dates and adulterous bodies in sordid hotel rooms had lost every thrill ages ago. Because that was my profession: catching wives or husbands at it and providing proof of it..

Her look was sad and betrayed the smile she gave me. "I think my girl friend is cheating on me". She belonged to this century and to ...

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