Paris. Cigars. Twelve.When I lived in Paris.When I smoked cigars.Twelve.That afternoon you brought two cigars in a plastic bag.They had a French-sounding name.You told me what it was. I was in a bad mood and said so. You did not try to talk me out of it.Now I’m alone.The air smells like wet gravel.
Paris. Cigars. Eleven.When I lived in Paris.When I smoked cigars.Eleven.I might have taken a wrong turnon my way here this morning.I’m not sure.It looks like the same small tableunder the same awningcaked with the same pigeon crap.But something feels different. Are you on vacation?Of course, you do not have to tell meyou are going on vacationand it is summer afterall.Still, it would be too badif you left without hearingthe story about . . .well, one of those storiesI seem to remember only as it gets warmerand the trees leaf out.