Sunday, April 26, 2015


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 family".

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 thunder.

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