It's the end of the 60's, Ghyslaine aka Gigi wears long skirts, puts black khol on her eyes and falls in love with Roland, this handsome and slightly grumpy basketball player. They get married and give birth to a boy. Their bohemian life seems perfect but Ghyslaine falls into depression. So she has a few drinks whenever her friends are passing by, it helps her smile. Until one day she can't live without it. To what extent does the love we have for someone prevent us from seeing them as they are? How far can we lose ourselves in denial?
A story told by Gigi and Roland.
