I look at him from across the table. His eyes bulge, his lips protrude—he is ugly. He blows smoke rings in my eyes—he is rude. Under the fairy-tale lights tonight, I’m lonely. I think he notices, so he speaks. He speaks thickly, stupidly—he is French.
I’m eating pastrami on rye. He eats a bowl of potato and leek soup, with French bread. He drinks wine—he is sophisticated. I think I can fly away. Flying away from all of this seems quite possible to me. And yet, I’m still here—the Frenchman, the wine, the smoke is all here invading my world.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
In a distant restaurant
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4 comments:
Whoa, I can hear how the man was invading your world. It seethes through your tone. Nicely done. Nicely done.
Oh, that we really could fly away at times.
...however, how gracious and European of you to share a table with such a 'gent' - i bet you'd have prefered the leek/potato soup so as to avoid his slurp?
I might let him disrupt my life
very beautiful;will be back
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