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.
You have the keys to a chambre de bonne on Rue de la Rochefoucauld. Exposed beams. Endless vista of roof tops.
I watch you sleeping, naked in the heat.
I pull your scarf from the table and run it across your shoulders, down your back, across your…
I stand in front of the hotel and wait for you to bring the car around.
Something is really wrong or really right. Otherwise, I wouldn’t let you behind the wheel.