The first night.
We emerged from a randomly chosen exit of Invalides station. The night was colder than I would have liked, the luggage a little clumsier than I had imagined when we packed that afternoon. There was a smell of foreignness. Empty streets, bright (search) lights scanning the misty skies, overwhelming statues on pedestals overlooking what seemed like the river seine.
I stood still for a moment, shivering. You looked around, trying to put a match between Google map and reality. "Let's go," you grabbed my hand. We moved tentatively down the road, listening to the rhythmic sounds the luggage wheels made after crossing every bit of oddly laid pavement. My urge to explore extinguished fairly quickly as the wind caught up, unkindly stealing into my collars.
"Where are we now?"
"It should be near." You turned around, putting a cap to the Nikon camera.
I could feel my body tensing against the cold. "But where's Rue Dominique? Could we have passed it already?" You looked at the map on your phone, again. "You stay here, I'll check it out." I watched you run down and turn at the next junction, wishing that I had followed. The negligible amount of effort that I saved by standing with the luggage, alone, didn't turn out to be that comforting.
The temporary sensation of being apart. What is temporary, anyway? A minute? A year? Half a lifetime? It has been our way of love, and will continue to be? I wish that I could see an end, to go wherever you are - but sometimes by just a split second I left myself behind. Union and departure. One moment: childlike anticipation; and the next: emptiness next to you.
At least you returned that first night. We found our hotel: green, dainty, wearing the Eiffel Tower on its rooftop. We found Japanese food, and warmth of a room that only had us.
I stood still for a moment, shivering. You looked around, trying to put a match between Google map and reality. "Let's go," you grabbed my hand. We moved tentatively down the road, listening to the rhythmic sounds the luggage wheels made after crossing every bit of oddly laid pavement. My urge to explore extinguished fairly quickly as the wind caught up, unkindly stealing into my collars.
"Where are we now?"
"It should be near." You turned around, putting a cap to the Nikon camera.
I could feel my body tensing against the cold. "But where's Rue Dominique? Could we have passed it already?" You looked at the map on your phone, again. "You stay here, I'll check it out." I watched you run down and turn at the next junction, wishing that I had followed. The negligible amount of effort that I saved by standing with the luggage, alone, didn't turn out to be that comforting.
The temporary sensation of being apart. What is temporary, anyway? A minute? A year? Half a lifetime? It has been our way of love, and will continue to be? I wish that I could see an end, to go wherever you are - but sometimes by just a split second I left myself behind. Union and departure. One moment: childlike anticipation; and the next: emptiness next to you.
At least you returned that first night. We found our hotel: green, dainty, wearing the Eiffel Tower on its rooftop. We found Japanese food, and warmth of a room that only had us.