He tells me about the dreams he's having and how with time he remembers them more and more as things that really happened.
found a prettier hotel and moved our lives across the river a couple of
hundred yards to the north He buys blue and violet cut flowers and
rearranges the furniture according to his own messed up idea of feng
shui. Paris is a fading fantasy outside, a neglected lover we got tired
of sooner than we could ever imagine. "I was born here" he says, gazing
distractedly out the window through the ivory drapes. "But it means
nothing to me now".
We try out gin cocktails at the local bar and
he makes me speak French with French girls in flimsy dresses and bird's
nest hair. I know exactly how to make them want me more than him and I
know that he loves me more because of it.