A man is waiting for a woman. How long has it been? He can’t remember. She’s late. He’s at home, pacing the floor, going from one room to the next, looking out the window, willing her to knock at his door. His restlessness, nerves, and impatience are the fruit of his own imagination and daydreams. A man is waiting for a woman who won’t come, because she doesn’t exist. He knows that his desire to meet her is an illusion, but he can’t help hoping.

Loïc Demey enjoys jostling language the better to serve the story. Aux amours is composed of a single sentence that respects the mechanics of tension and release, and that toys with rhythm.