paris special, or why it stank

how softly that city kills! do you remember? we met at dusk, i was waiting at denfert like you told me to. an old drunk man tried to talk to me, je parle pas francaise i mumbled. then you arrived, drunk. we kissed on the train, i wore my new red lipstick did you see it? it was a paris special. 

you left for work, we slept apart. i walked onto the street outside your apartment, terrified someone would talk to me. three euros 

don't get you very far. i bought a baguette and ate it on the train, it was dry and plain, the train smelt of old cheese. 

on my way home i stopped at a vintage store, breathing in the musky hopes of african immigres lost in cold winters 

then it was time for you to return and i brought you red flowers i found on the road. 

i put them in a jar, i took a photo of us, i watched you talk to computer, dressed up, talking fast. i wore my special dress, did you notice? in the mirror behind you, i watched myself watching you,  

that cat looked best silhouetted against the sky, upclose she stank, that apartment stank. (later you told me eric kept her litter carefully stacked behind the machine, why was that?) 

i tried so hard to be a part of that house! i swept the floor, used that little trickle of a shower, bought overpriced strawberries. they were so sour, do you remember? 

that city stank. only the buildings sparkle in the night.

meanwhile american tourists line up, grumbling, gypsies reach out, grabbing, old men walk by with postcards, hustling. i was broke and hungry and it all stank, except that hour before i left and you held onto me, sobbing.