AUGUST 8, PARIS
We lean against the railing on the landing of Le Train Bleu. Below a flood of Parisians enters the Gare de Lyon to depart for the south. Parallel quais recede in the distance. The sun filters in through the station’s glass roof.
Early morning, unbrushed teeth, the blur of airtime. My soul tethered to my body but thousands of miles behind. Your head on my shoulder. The plane circles Schiphol, a porthole vision: wind farms, rectangular fields like paper passed through a shredder, shipping containers.