She says oh god as I slip the air horn in my back pocket. And as I open the door I’m convinced there’s a complete band set up in the stairwell. It wouldn’t be the first time. Once as the sun was rising brilliant red over the city I had to toss a Québécois folk group into the streets. A prouder moment of speaking French I’ve never experienced. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough.   The ones who don’t fit in.   The ones I see my own face in.  
Read more
Head on a pillow and clothes on the floor I sweat and shiver, something is wrong. I want someone to call, to come save me, but the woman who used to won’t and the one that will is too far away. This is my future, drool going cold on the sheets, muscles stiffening. I pass out hoping I wake up. I need to make things right. 
Read more
Along rue Notre-Dame I walk slow, no rush. A homeless woman with blue hair stomps through the park barking like a dog, princess printed on her shirt. In a greek restaurant I order food. The waiter says I sound like un vrai français. Get the fuck out of here I laugh. It’s Saturday night, the whole city smiles. 
Read more