I'm out Monday, somewhere in Marais north of Rue Étienne Marcel. The bar is closing when a man tries to talk to me, first in French, then in a broken English that suggests he's from southern Spain. He gets increasingly intrusive as I ignore him and ends up rhetorically asking how a chatte like me sleeps at night. I want to say "Diazepam" but I guess it's wasted on him.
Henry's shadow still chases me across the boulevards in Saint-Germain. I don't know that he's actually here but I keep feeling his presence like an electric chock through my every bone. Maybe it's just phantom pains from an amputated part of the soul, or maybe he's out there looking for me too.
