39 Rue de Jean

And then there are mornings such as these.

The absolute ordinariness of Friday mornings is known to send happiness waves among the scores of people who are a part of the proverbial grindstone. Its all the same in most places, whether your office is at Wall Street or in some other provincial part of a city.

The flight landed safely, without any incident. They looked at each other. She regretted wearing the small red skirt.

They had idle chatter through the trip- at the airport, in transit. Are you hungry, sleepy, resources and revenue kind of mundane stuff. Shop talk, mostly. And then there were the silences when she didn’t know if she should break into one of those awfully cheerful to the point of saying absolute nothing conversations.

Maybe he felt the awkwardness too. This mindless conversation in energy packets happened back and forth till the flight landed and she regretted wearing that red skirt.

It was still early morning- 4 a.m. Most of the city was asleep, with new people pouring in at intervals.

The hotel coffee shop was open- he sat checking his emails, while her notebook was put aside as she sat examining her shoe bites. Late night, or sometimes too early in the morning coffees, dinner with people you just met, flying in and out of cities none of which could be called home. That was the life she chose for herself. The money, the success is exhilarating, what she wanted all her life. She was almost a legacy and had built an empire for herself. She was what many women aspired to be- hard talking, glamorous, not having to take crap.

It was all her choice.

Then morning takes over, the madness of it all, the splendid beauty of it all. She excused herself. In the confines of the rest room, she seated herself and took her shoes off. If there was one thing that being in business had taught her, it was to focus, to be conscious of each minute. The wound was still a little raw- it was as if that part of her feet was living more than the rest. She just sat there and allowed herself to weep.

That night, it snowed in Paris.

Digression

Cold
Winter night
Darkness
Settling
And then
Unsettling
You

Blanket
Of
Black sky
The
Only clothing
On
Your stripped self

The cemetery
Cold
Dark
So black

The chills
Hit your skin
The tear glands
Are dry
From over-use
Or shock

The answers
Unbecoming
Undeserving

You shiver
Steadily
And seat
On the closest grave

The chill
Of the marble
On your skin

The yearning
Of being.
To be.
Six feet under.

A dry brown
Leaf
Finds its way
To
Your almost frozen
Tresses

Morning comes
Surely
Who wills
Survive?