Paris '08

My Erika had disappeared in a dark cab while the moon looked on, it was black but the naked trees were ashimmer with their holiday bijoux. When the sun vied with the mist eventually, I strolled over one of the many bridges of the Seine, this one accommodated a trio of jazz musicians, their voices American, their garb from the thirties, their music, well, old time. People were sparse, preferring the warm cafes, I was lonely, I stood on the bridge, their songs were succour to my melancholy. When they played the Tennessee Waltz I started to sing along but curiously after a verse I couldn't continue, I started to choke. It was one of the songs my baby and I sang to pass the hours when driving to the mountains. I felt someone watching me, he followed, as I ambled around Notre Dame, and approached me with hesitancy on the next bridge. We talked brokenly, his English and my French were on a par. Small hands I mused,finger stubs, but then he was a short man - Why is it I thought, that small men are drawn to tall women, is it because they can say to the world - look what I have here, I may be short but hey look what I can attract ? We met again but at the end of a grey afternoon in Musee D'Orsay immersing myself in Monet, and Van Gogh, amongst other artists, I slipped away before the impending dinner could eventuate, the inevitable fumblings of unwanted amour, the attempt to remain pleasant/ polite but at a distance, to a stranger who was kind ? or perhaps had his own agenda - melancholy solo woman's mask.

Not a very exciting episode but the mood lingers - New Years Eve in Paris, now that was FUN - That is for another time,