Something in the afternoon air smells of autumn, Henry smells like a snowfall when I wake up with my nose on his collarbone. I want to tell him that I've kept his daffodils but I've already lied to him once (he asked if I had ever had sex with someone French. Who does he think I am?).
He talks about Paris, about the
apartment and the gardens. He talks about his sister and chain smokes
his Camels over breakfast somewhere on Cours Saleya. Scattered across
the paving are traces from yesterday's market, he picks up a marguerite
and starts picking the discolored petals. She loves me, she loves me
Come with me he says, in passing, not looking at me but
somewhere in the hazy distant, through the buildings out towards the
ocean. It sounds like a whisper but breaks my heart like a wrecking
ball, violently and mercilessly. It's not a question, he doesn't wait
for an answer, just lets the cigarette dissolve into ashes along with
the marguerite petals on the ground below us.