...of being tongue-tied

Until the Ile Saint-Louis, not a word is spoken. She'd like to take advantage of this silence but she can't. Everything is mixed up in her. She thinks she has to talk. To justify their unusual presence in this place, at this hour of the day, the fact that they are together for the first time. To prove to him that he wasn't wrong to invite her. To keep him there, give him reasons to stay. Because she is worried that he could change his mind at any second and walk off having realised his mistake. She has never been very talkative, but right now her brain is refusing to cooperate. It feels as if she is playing Scrabble with herself. Bits of words, the beginnings of phrases forms in her head, but she can't manage to string them together. Her only consolation is to think that perhaps a similar pandemonium is whirling inside him. She doesn't dare look at him to check. And then, as they turn a street corner, he places a hand on her back. A brief caress, as if to reassure her, as if her had sensed her panic. The contact calms her fears. She knows only one thing now: she is walking by his side.

[Voice Over, Curiol, C.]