mirror

Walking in a brisk october afternoon, the buildings rise around me. The sky hides behind brick and steel. I arrived in Paris yesterday, the airline lost one of my cases. I am left wearing an ill-fitting pair of crocodile flats. My right heal has a blister the size of a dime, which tore. I curse airlines and the irregularities of Paris's streets. The maze of Rues and Boulevards meet at democratic angles. I live at 46 rue du Montparnasse. Which in glory years meant cafés and artists; now I am stuck with the only skyscraper in all of Paris. The Gare is confounding, because it stands singular in the sky. I find it impossible to use it as a landmark; it looks identical from every side.
The blister on foot burns. I stop in one of the identical cafés and have myself a tiny coffee. I put in cream and a tube or two of sugar, smoking a couple of cigarettes before I leave. On the way home, I make a point of buying wine. I am at an impasse. My lost luggage has my cork and my teeth are inadequate for such antics. The bonhomme was kind enough to appreciate my delicate situation. He corked the bottle for me, and told me to come in the morning for fresh pan. This is my idea of a neighborhood grocer. I have wine, soup, and cheese for dinner. Sleep comes quickly and smells of the boulangerie downstairs.