Paris. Cigars. Ten.When I lived in Paris.When I smoked cigars.Ten.It's not the smoke from a pile of dry leaves burning in the back yard. Nor the aroma of a nicely charred merguez.Nevertheless, my shirtsleeves smell like smoke this morning so I think I should say to you that one of us must have smoked a cigar yesterday.Of course, I am not saying that it was you at some undisclosed location.But on the terrace of Café Metro?Maybe? Casually? One of us?
Paris. Cigars. Nine.When I lived in Paris.When I smoked cigars.Nine.I may have dreamed these words. I can't find them in ink in either of my two notebooks where the pages smell like cigars -- one cigar per page. This one Nicaraguan.This one a Habanos.Wait. Here they are. This page where the ink is smudged and the aroma muddled.No. No, this is just an old story, not well maintained.I need to dust off my older stories. Buff them a little before I can share them with you.
Paris. Cigars. Eight.When I lived in Paris.When I smoked cigars.Eight.You brought friends with you today.This changes everything.Chairs are rearranged. Cigarettes and smiles are placed on the table. Stories are inventoried, ready for display.You know me better than this.I am relieved that I am smoking a petit corona. I beg my exit before the half-way point. We'll talk later.