I can't be alone in that apartment, in my bed. All I do is wait for his fingertips to touch down on the keys of his piano like autumn leaves. I'm pacing impatiently, cheeks already warm from the morning Pastis, frantically clenching the silk of my (adorable) little Moschino nightgown. Every sound an explosion, every sudden movement a shot to the heart.
I get dressed to go out, the
sunlight by the river is blinding me and I wear too much black for the
season. I started reading Flaubert again, just to see if it still gets
to me like it did that sultry summer in another life.
focus keeps shifting as strange men come up to me at bars and
restaurants, offering their company in different languages and melodies.
I always tell them I'm waiting for someone. Eventually it's going to
sound like a truth.