15.11.12

I'd wear my blue dress (fiction)


I still haven’t been to Paris, she thought. “Is it that I haven’t lived or loved until…?”

Tapping the windowpane, watching the rain, grey, in sheets, drowning the world.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Nostalgia - that’s all it is,” she told herself. A glimpse of an old love on Facebook, his face telling of a happiness that she herself had yet to find.

He wasn’t even that far away.

Could she? Leap into her car and drive, knock on his door – it would be night by then. She’d see his face lit by the glow from the inside of his house, she would cast a shadow by the streetlights.

He would be happy to see her.

Perhaps?

Maybe?

It’s too late now.

His wife would ask, “Who is it?” she’d join them at the door, her hair pulled back from her face, her belly still flaccid from their last child.

I'd wear my blue dress, the one that hangs in my wardrobe. I'd have to air it, free it of the smell of hiding, the smell that accumulates when a dress lies in wait for a day deemed worthy of it.

An hour away he may sit, but a thousand lifetimes away he is.

Here I am alone and not in Paris. Another evening on Facebook, watching other lives pass me by, leaving me in their wake, choking on their dust.

Why not go to Paris? Drink wine by the Seine, crane my neck to the arches of the Eiffel, the wine and museums?

Why not be alone in Paris.

Image: Pinterest

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