The W Word.


Accidental Rodin (Balzac) Paris, Spring, 2011



The W Word.



She was washing a window.

The window of her shop.

But when she looked up our eyes met.

Hard and bright.


A perfect slant of sunlight bisected us.

Haloing her.

Blue-ing me.


I commented on the name of her shop.


“I was born that year!” she said.

“Me too.” I lied.


We began talking.

When she was listening she tilted her head.

As if she was trying to help the words pour into her ear easier.

The sunlight had its way with her neck.


I leaned against the wall.

She leaned against the door jam.

It was like the building was a vertical bed we were sharing.


We talked about travel mostly.

And between the words I saw us hand in hand,

Chasing trains as they pulled out of stations,

Cooling our feet in alpine streams,

Making love in the afternoon in high ceilinged rooms.


“Where are you from?” she asked.


“San Francisco.”


“San Francisco?! We love going there.”


The W word.


And the train crashed

And the stream dried up

And the high ceilinged room disappeared.

And high above, a plane crossed the sky

Traveling to some destination

Making the sun






Paris, Spring, 2011.



Also appears at Pure Slush.




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