28 Nov

ę

Pont Neuf, early Sunday morning. He is standing there in a long-sleeved T-shirt and ripped up brownish canvas jeans. He’s staring into the water as if something, something brilliant and boiling and wild, will come out, slap him in the face, and teach him all there is to know.
I’m descending the stairs, freshly sweaty from the heat in the Metro- six stops underground, packed with the hoi polloi like sardines- and weary. It’s been a long time since I returned here; the memories in my bones are growing restless. I want to let them out, to listen, but there are more important matters at hand. I clutch my jacket more tightly around my waist and step faster- the stairs underneath make a clip-clopping noise- until I’m on the Pont itself, just feet away from him.
“Monsieur!” I say. It comes out funny, seeing as the air in my lungs has suddenly frozen the rest of my body into tiny shards of conciousness.
He turns. “Madamoiselle? Qu’est-ce que vous voudrais– ah.”
There is a silence as our eyes meet. He recognises me, obviously- that drunken night in the Marais, confused and out of our minds on a million different hallucinogenics (mainly trust and blind love and lust) that sped us up the stairs to his apartment where we made a mess of his kitchen before organizing ourselves more efficiently and fufilling the duty we’d nearly started right there in the smoking area of the discotheque before being kicked out by the manager. But I digress- the important part, the reason I stopped feeling acid in my veins, was the recognisation.
“Je n’ai pas vous oublié,” he says. I didn’t forget you.
“Merci.”
Another strange silence. I don’t want to doubt myself, I can’t doubt myself, but there is a nagging feeling in my heart nonetheless. I want to run off and fling myself into the dirty water below, just to escape this conversation. I won’t, though, because he says:
“alors– qu’est-ce que vous faitez en Paris?” What are you doing in Paris?
I look at him. Still the same. Maybe wearier, maybe sadder, but the aquiline nose is still there, the dark eyes, the longish messy hair. The build- not too skinny, but not broad or
muscular- still there, though he’s getting older and you can tell it in his posture. I suddenly realize he’s asked me a question.
“Uh, pour visiter le cite, quoi autre raison?”
“Pas pour moi?”
I can’t answer him.

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