The Beginning

For V

I want to tell you a story.

The story begins one morning, the first morning. He wakes up and smiles at her through half-closed lashes. Overnight, every color has shifted ever so slightly – the teal of the bedcovers holding them has a sheen he has never seen before. The last drops of rain patter on the window, and tendrils of sunlight drift in and settle on a strand of her hair.

Serendipity

Parlez-vous anglais? He asked, and the adventure began.

Let me show you the places where artists go to share ideas… the modern day Salons. Let me show you the best bookstores and coffee shops in Paris. And, what’s your story? He asked, as we meandered down the bustling street.

The Leaves are Beginning to Fall

The leaves are beginning to fall and there’s a feeling in his chest that reminds him of happiness.

There’s a slight chill in the cafe he waits in. His foot taps a little too fast to the music playing through the speakers – white rubber earbuds sit loosely in his ears. People trail past the brick wall he faces – tall, tall, short, couple, child, dog – only the dog has its nose pointed away from the ground, sniffing the air as if looking for a long-lost scent.

Mystery

It’s a dark night, the kind of night where everything except the flicker of light inside your home is muffled. Outside the windows, everything that used to exist has lost its hold on its outlines – there is nothing left but a thick silence and wisps of dissipated forms. Your room, with its table edges and yellow wallpaper, is the small haven of reality that remains. In the kitchen the radio plays gently, and a speckled cat warms itself against your thigh. There is a book on the chair beside you but this world right here is too present, too heavy to lose yourself in another.

On Watching Snowfall from a Cafe

I’m holding a warm coffee, watching the first snowfall through the panelled windows of a cafe, and I’m struck by how incredibly captivating it is.

If you blur your focus, the snowflakes seem to pour down steadily, slanting their way towards the round. But if you watch each one for the few seconds it’s in the air, it drifts haphazardly, changing directions in Brownian motion. There’s a confused urgency to the way they spiral and bounce, as if they have no idea where they’re going, as if collision with the ground is as unanticipated as their sudden descent from the clouds.