We started talking again this weekend but not much remains to be said. "What's your New Year's resolution" he asks vapidly, "I've been meaning to pick up smoking myself". I don't have one but I lie and tell him I'm going to write a book. He nods discreetly, right hand firm around a highball glass of Rye Whiskey.
nights are becoming a habit, the closest I am to a ritual. I wander
these Saint Germain streets long after he falls asleep and far in to the
early morning. Last week I met her in the same place at the exact same
time from Monday to Friday: the ethereal woman from an Alphonse Mucha
poster. Dressed in burgundy and black, she walks lightly as if in a
painless dream and leaves traces of l'Air du Temps on the air as she
I'm back in bed undressed before he wakes up, he asks
me if I slept and I tell him that I'm too much in love. I guess it's a
little cruel but I just can't help myself.