We spend another late Saturday at La Coupole, my life is a worn out track on endless repeat. Everywhere I see pretty girls gazing over their thin shoulders, first at him, then me. If looks can kill I must be indestructible.
His sister is there too,
somewhere in between the oysters and empty Champagne bottles, dressed in
gray and brown and as somber as a Catholic funeral. When we leave I ask
him about her. "I know she's not much" he says, "but at least she's
I sense something coming over us, not a storm but a
menacing void. A gorge forming underneath us as we walk home in silence.
He holds my hand but more out of duty than passion. "Pretend like you
love me" I say, "kiss me like you do". He tastes of Pol Roger and old
smoke, when the moment has passed the sky comes crashing down like