Lug came out of his house, his head up, his hand out.

It wasn't raining today.

The sky was cloudy, the blue gray of these cottony lumps was threatening to break like an eggshell, pouring over the valley.

The temperature was rising, spring was getting closer, little by little.

Lug's coat was too warm to go out, but he had nothing else to protect him from the rain.

He took nevertheless the decision to go out with his sweater, accepting the risk to be soaked.

He was at the mercy of the weather.

It was not pleasant.

Lug hated uncertainty.

As much as he hated obligations.

He'd looked for a job in a cemetery so he'd never have to deal with the working world again.

And now he was a sweeper in a circus.

He had forgotten to ask what time he was supposed to start.

In doubt, he decided to go there by 10 o'clock.

"The artists, they go to bed late and they never get up before 10 o'clock." Lug thought.

This belief was based... on nothing.

Lug was in total improvisation.

Somehow, that was an important skill to have, in the art world.

Maybe he wasn't so far removed from this world that seemed alien to him.

He had his pocket full.

And the metallic noise went along with his walk through the woods.

It took him - like the day before - two hours and a half to get there.

It was around 10 o'clock when he found himself knocking on the blue caravan.

The small plastic door vibrated under his knocks.

It was loose.

He saw a shadow through the closed curtains moving towards the entrance of the caravan.

A young woman opened the door, with wavy hair that reached her shoulders.

Large round glasses accentuated the two green beads that served as her eyes.

Her multicolored doll dress reached her knees.

Her quirky style reassured Lug, she was not intimidating.

She observed him for a moment, then frowned and dropped a few words between her teeth.

"Damn you..."

She took the first object she could find and threw it at Lug.

The latter reacted just in time to avoid it, by taking a well-felt side step.

The trajectory of the projectile was hazardous.

Lug recognized at a glance the object - a cup.

At that moment, he strengthened his legs and stood ready to dodge.

Another object flew towards him at full speed.

A jar of... jam?

It flew by his head.

Lug couldn't help but turn his head to see what was in the jar.

Suddenly another object arrived, this time much more slowly.

Some lace...? A cloth?

He didn't avoid the object that landed on his head.

"A... A panty...?!" Lug thought, bewildered.

He did not have time to regain his senses that a brick fell on his head.

He passed out.

He woke up to a bucket of water being thrown in his face.

The water was icy cold.

He sat up, eyes wide open, pupils dilated.

"What's going on? Where am I?" were the first questions that flashed through his brain.

Turned off the moment before, his mind was now full of life, as active as a shopping street before Christmas.

He looked around.

He was lying on the ground in the center of the circus.

For some reason, he had been moved there, before being awakened.

Several people were standing there.

The director he had seen the day before, the muscular blond man holding a bucket and the young woman who was the cause of his headache.

She was standing there, an apologetic look could be guessed by the leaky look in her eyes.

"He's alive, you can put the shovel away." Said the man in the tank top as he set the bucket down.

He chuckled; the events seemed to amuse him.

The director crouched down, his knees almost touching his chin.

"Look, there's been a little misunderstanding. It's no big deal. I got the colors mixed up, blue, green. No matter. Bricks fly - fools get them. It happens. Huh?" The old man stroked his beard as he spoke.

He was trying - very clumsily - to calm the situation.

His hands were searching the ground, yet the sand had nothing to hide.

It wasn't nervousness, but rather a way - his way - of pondering.

His hands were a metaphor for his brain, searching for an idea, like a pig searching for truffles.

Suddenly, the long, bruised fingers of his right hand stopped.

He had found something.

Lug then watched the man rise to his feet, his finger raised.

"Deborah, come and apologize." His finger went from right to left, as if to indicate the movement to follow.

The young woman with the large glasses and curly hair stepped forward, she now had a name: Deborah.

"What is your name anyway?" Asked the old man.

"Lug."

"Apologize to Lug." Said the old man to Deborah.

The young woman stopped in front of Lug, her hands behind her back.

"I'm sorry. I've confused you with someone else." She spoke robotically.

Her eyes were static.

She had been practicing that sentence in her head.

It wasn't an apology but a rehearsal for a play.

"Whatever. At this point..." Lug thought.

He pushed back the hair that hung in front of his eyes and turned back to the old man, who was already leaving, and said:

"Teach me the circus arts, and I will overlook this incident."

The man in the black tank top began to laugh.

A false, forced, and loud laugh.

The old man didn't even turn around, he just kept walking.

He held up his finger and twirled it.

And in an almost inaudible voice, said:

"Deborah will take care of teaching you the basics..."

Then in an even weaker voice, he added:

"Then we'll see."

He opened the door and disappeared.

Deborah looked up at the sky.

Then she put her hands clasped against her face.

"Aaaaah... But why. Must it. Always. Be. Guys. Pissing me off."

She dropped her hands, then gave Lug a murderous look.

"Ok, we'll see what you're made of. Tomorrow eight o'clock, here." She pointed to the floor.

Lug did not feel intimidated.

He should have, though.