Il y a une semaine, j'ai posté un exercice de style intitulé "Le sac rouge" où je demandais de réécrire le texte, de se l'approprier. Voici la réponse de Adrian Hetson. Elle en a fait deux versions, mais je préfère la deuxième.
The Red Handbag II
The crowd descends the staircase in silence.
At this early hour, many are still half asleep.
They all quicken their pace
as the vibration of the approaching train can be felt underfoot.
Time is precious.
And the morning passengers are the worst pressed for time.
An old man descends the stairs one at a time
on his way to the embarkment.
In his right hand he holds his cane
while his left hand grips onto the central bannister.
Despite his fragile appearance, life is good.
He is returning home from a sleepover
at his girlfriend's house.
Margaret is ten years younger than him
which makes her seventy-nine years old.
He's an old goat but he can still keep up with her in the bedroom.
He whistles to himself as he slowly continues down the stairs,
lost in his reverie.
Behind the old man,
a young woman with an enormous red handbag
is sighing loudly in exasperation.
She is late.
Again.
That makes three times this week alone.
Her supervisor warned her that the next time she was late,
there would be an interview with the big boss.
Shit! That's all she needs.
An interview with the company's CEO, Ross Desmarais.
There were rumors running through the office that
she had been sleeping with him.
Given that the rumors were true,
she would probably get fired. Again.
"No favoritism for the office slut",
would be the verdict.
And what did she get out of it?
Well, this gorgeous, red Prada bag, for one.
Sex with Ross was definately mediocre.
But this red, Prada handbag that he gave her
was absolutely delicious.
Her dreams of life as a fashion Diva are interrupted
when she hears the sound of the train doors opening,
The young woman passes the old man.
In her haste she bangs into the old man with her big, red handbag.
She feels badly about it
but continues on to catch the train.
She is really late.
And her feet are already killing her in these shoes.
Her heels are high enough to cause a sprain
should she take a misstep
so she moves towards the train doors
with little baby steps.
"Why did I have to wear these bloody shoes?", she asks herself.
Despite the shoes,
she manages to slip into the subway just in time.
The subway is so packed that she is barely in the train.
Nobody moves aside to give her some space.
The crowded train resists her efforts
to move deeper into the subway car.
Great!
That is all she needs.
"It is probably my karma for bumping into that old man on the stairs," she thinks.
"Now it's my turn."
Half of her big, red Prada bag is hanging out of the train.
The train doors close.
Most of the big, red handbag is caught outside of the doors.
As she turns around to struggle with the doors,
trying in vain to get them to open,
she sees the old man that she passed on the staircase.
He is on his hands and knees
at the foot of the stairs.
"Oh! my God!", she gasps outloud. "What have I done?"
She pushes again to seperate the doors:
a final attempt to rescue her handbag
and run to help the old man.
One last push and the doors reopen.
She clutches her bag to her chest
But her heels prevent her from moving quickly.
The doors open and close with such speed.
She is caught on the train,
unable to repair the damage she has done.
The train starts to move away.
Her last view is that of the old man struggling to get up.
Her bag is safe
but she feels like hell.
"I am a selfish monster", she concludes.
"When am I going to get my shit together?"
As she continues on her way to work,
she feels the weight of the world on her right shoulder.
And on her left one,
she feels the weight of her big, red Prada bag.
