Post-mortem

The last few days I've been drifting without any sense of direction, wandering alone leaving scarlet lipstick stains on wine glasses all around the Rive Gauche. Everywhere I hear seagulls and rhythmic waves on the autumn winds, knowing we're still miles away from the ocean.

"She was buried in Oscar de la Renta" he says, "such a fucking shame". He tells me he's going back to school on Monday, "but you can stay here as long as you want". I close my eyes and all I see is New York long after sunset, the lights from the Chrysler Building a glimmering constellation over Lexington Avenue. Me in my navy Prada coat, high heels and ivory leather gloves on my trembling way back home from the Rose Bar. The air smells distinctly of salt and anticipation.

Maybe it's this past summer echoing in the back of my mind, the things I should have said and done while there was still time. I call him from some bar in Saint-Germain to ask if he knows but he doesn't. Everywhere are sounds of people talking and laughing and even when I try I can't remember the last time I cried.