Wednesday, December 10

LIKE TWO LIPS

For a while I thought I was lonely, that’s why I called my moto taxi guy. He picked me up from hotel V. and kissed my cheek. That was what I wanted: a distant kind of intimacy. We drove to the Eiffel Tower and had a frappuccino at CafĂ© Alma.
He spilled some coffee on the tablecloth and then he said it was my fault. When he said it I smiled, but I wasn’t sure if a stain on a tablecloth would be such a drama for me.
His appartment was clean and full of light. There were some African statues in the living room, next to a table made of glass. We drank champagne out of glasses shaped like flowers, they looked like they had not been used before. When I undressed he asked: “what is the best thing anyone has ever said to you?” and I answered: “a guy once wrote we were like two lips, unseparable. Of course we broke up straight away.” Afterwards I looked at his art collection; some French painters I had never heard of before. He played some Ben Harper and while he did I wondered if I felt fulfilled. Then he told me that he had a child, a boy who just turned thirteen. He touched my shoulders and I tried to open up to him, to tell him something personal, a small confession that would sound like a small truth. But all I wanted was to close my eyes and tell him I would leave.