Friday, August 15


This summer Paris didn’t feel like it used to feel. Perhaps because I was tired, or perhaps because the city had really changed, a change I hadn’t witnessed and was determined to deny. Moto taxi guy was waiting for me in front of the Jardin des Plantes. This was the moment that I loved him most, the moment he was still waiting for me, unaware of my presence, not knowing when or if I would arrive. Despite the heat he was wearing a black sweater, as if he knew the weather wouldn’t last. I knew he was the kind of guy who would forget my birthday on purpose, just to punish me for being me. Still I agreed to meet him, to listen to his stories about how hard his life was, to comfort him as if he were my child. I knew I had a lot of anger inside me, but I would never share my true feelings, never tell him how I felt and why. He waved at me and took my suitcase, asking me how my journey had been.       
I wondered if he would love me if he knew all my secrets, the unspeakable, the things I did and didn’t do. Maybe he didn’t deserve my secrets, maybe a short walk through the park with him would be enough.