We boarded by Pont d'Lena.
Hard to leave the cosiness of the shadow, where we sit, in the wide staircase that plunges into the waves of Seine. Boat, we saw it arriving, turning and surrendering to the pier. Maneuver confiscates the eyes of those waiting. Tourists walk out, tourists walk in. Locals merge with the others. We walk in and chose our places without worrying, facing each other, exchanging tired looks composed by the delays of the whirlpools around the bust of Monsieur Eiffel. Buzzing in the neck, still, the majesty of the tower's columns, however, as prescribed news. 'See you later', erasing the egregious names recorded on the high iron.
I remember the single time we went up to the top. Astonishing hair. Unreal to consume arrondissements frayed hard below. Montparnasse erect, La Défense erect, lonely Sacré-Couer. Photographs, so many. You asked with youthful carelessness to whom went by, 'frame us for eternity'. I still keep them. We were young, Paris.
That kiss tasted like love.
At captain's order, boat flows heavily through the river. Journey passes slowly and I prefer that way. Middle of September the weather is delightful, night falling is a good time to live. Seems the end of a cycle with the summer running out, sluggishness stretching it. At that very moment, to whom knows his exact place, there is not better peace. Engine's snore laces sea sounds and shapes a sexy lullaby. You lean your head into the glass and allow yourself to rock. You know that, like the seasons, you also exhaust. To be nostalgic in this town is something that everyone must derive as a blessing.
'You're sleepy ', I say.
'Not sure '.
Towing the answer, you tie your eyes and leave to me the margins observance.
Boats going other way, different lines, sizes, remember me the beginning of the party, preparations, mirror, counter flow. Random hands wave to strangers. Context prevails over reason. Life fragments cross an ephemeral refrain and stick together with powerful glue. This city make us puppets, even those who lease the chest to stones. Shakes us branding itself in the record as a blight. Foot of Passerelle Debilly, white long bow.
I recall our delicacy picnics, seated on the grass, lying on the grass, garden bench, improvise. Flattened cheese between baguette palms, haute cuisine. Nothing would taste better. Chewing time with an open mouth, blessed, toasting with warm water.
Pinot noir would not add anything.
Away, others like us, doodling stories unaware they are characters in ours. A tangle of plots. Going by Pont de l'Alma you open eyes and allow yourself to absorb the light decaffeing a flush of sleep. You lift legs and put them down in my lap. Those feet are crying for affection. Cherry nails enthrones us as tourists. Nothing else matters, no malice. Without words my hands put a sigh into your pinkish lips. The sandals on the floor seem like an abandoned pup with gentle eyes. This time you enlace you eyelids, sleepless. Yesterday I would have said you were teasing me. But not today. On the banks couples park. With less touch, are more intimate. I sprout envy and you know why, loosing myself in past thoughts and the leafy grove that beacons the Seine.
Back to reality, holding your feet with no massage, tourists drool with the cherry nails. Will be one of them somewhere in the future, not today. I get older and everyone with me, nobody escapes unharmed, the gravity affects us all as a community. I remember our first time at the Champs du Mars, among a crowd of crows, made us revise an old film in words. Enclosed an omen. Each city has its mascot. Paris, the crows. Black, silky, mobster posture.
Seems now you are sleeping, feeling fingers stuck in your soles, I do not know them almost. The soles I mean. Anyway, now that I observe carefully, I withdraw the almost. Petits, no more than thirty-five, thirty-six, just like you. Ravishing, a man manages to wash himself with love by details.
