If I Was Wrong About Paris

He told me I was wrong, that Paris loved them. He found a city block filled with guitar stores that were all closed. They stood in the Louvre and smiled, whispering, “we’re in the Louvre.” He told me he liked Mona Lisa’s smile. They made friends with fellow travelers and stayed up all night wandering foreign streets, he showed them my picture, he said, and they admitted I was beautiful. That we were beautiful together.

They missed a train, lost a reservation, got kicked out of a hostel, got lost, forgot the direction home. They climbed to the top of a deserted monastery, got drunk in the corners of the world I’d missed completely. In Belgium there were more raves than chocolate. In Amsterdam it was the red light district and we lost contact.

I went to work and fell back in love with my city. I went to lunch with a new friend and reconnected with an old one. I emailed people that are better left alone. I wrote in calligraphy and licked all the envelopes closed. I stayed up late watching bands play, propped my chin up in the morning. There were nights I felt like taking up smoking. Mornings I felt like retiring. There were dark circles and pounding hearts. Veins and bottoms up and getting soaked through. New sheets and broken plans. A snake.

He said no comment and that there was a party to attend to.

I didn’t hear a thing. He told me he was coming home early. I thought, if I was wrong about Paris; I could be wrong about everything.

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