Spiked morning coffee with myself at de Flore. It's the eye of the hurricane, the outskirts of a perfect storm and a thousand trivial conversations dilute the imminent threat of another war. A woman accuses me of eavesdropping, if shots were fired outside she wouldn't notice over the deafening sound of her own self-absorbed banalities.
Later with Henry, I mention LA in passing over dinner
somewhere in Montparnasse. "Do you miss it", he asks, I want to say no
but it's only a part of the truth. I miss the nights we spent in the
cold sand by the ocean, the things we would talk about and the smell of
her chestnut hair. I would close my eyes and imagine us together in the
water, holding hands beneath the surface in the dark. Her grip is firm
at first then gradually loosens until she lets go and all that remains
is a soporific silence and the waves.