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One Saturday in Paris, Stéphane, twenty-two years old, works at home. He spends the afternoon with his lover. They play at getting to know each other. he then goes to meet friends at a party, night of delicious drunkenness where we get drunk to juggle with words. On the Sunday morning, Stéphane wakes up with a curious impression, he is happy, a vertiginous impression which drives him on the roof of his building. It is the story of a man who smiles behind closed doors, a chronicle on the difference between men and women today. No, this story tells how Stéphane lost a part of his youth. Sunday morning is a tale on the death of youth.