haven’t been able to write. can’t seem to find the time to tap these keys and, meanwhile, my head spins to a symphony of repeating thoughts of where, when, how and why. i close my eyes and find myself in a garden.
not any garden.
his arm is around my waist, mine around his. he carries my bag, as he always insists too. his grey winter coat, my gray winter coat, the only two we have. and my bag.
walking down the tuileries, we were 21 and in love. he took me to museums i didn’t know, showed me some of my favorite paintings to date. he taught me french. less than a month later, i decided to leave him.
and i’m back to the garden. it’s summer and all i wear is a pair of shorts, a sports bra and running shoes. my hair, in a ponytail, are red, so red, ronald mc donald’s red. in my earphones, an app plays a beat that i gotta run to. and i run. under the arch, past the tourists, down the tuileries.
and he paces along side me.
a week earlier, i said: ask for four days off, pack your bags for spring. you’ll find out the destination at the airport. i handed him a cirano de bergerac copy, in french, to make fun (as i always did) of his nose. we went from the airport to the opera, and back to the hotel through the tuilleries.
i was through the roof happy. we put a engraved padlock on pont des arts and in less than two months he left me.
it rains. i look around the garden and there’s nowhere to hide. it pours. it’s winter, the weather is miserable and we hold each other tight to make warm, as we laugh. a merry go round spins in the distance and that’s where we decide to shelter till it’s better outside. it took many many turns. many turns until any of us left each other. it seemed like forever.
and it’s spring again.
the garden is packed of tourists. we find a staircase down to the museum atrium, where we buy a bottle of wine. the sun is out, a perfect day to spend sitting on the grass. and so we do.
we drink. you cover me with my jacket and make me cum. i ask you to be my boyfriend. i’m wearing a garter belt plus stockings on a thursday afternoon. i feel like the sexiest woman alive and like a botticelli angel at the same time. on all of our pictures, you got your face down my neck, kissing me, your hands around me.
we cross the tuileries and later that night have sex by the seine, right under pont des arts.
and as my head spins with all those memories, i ask myself: how would it be if i was back at the garden right now? if i was walking through pont des arts, would i glance at that iron ring i hung to while you lifted my skirt? would i decide to look the other way? would i miss it? would i be distracted by everything else and not even notice it?
but i’m not there.
i can close my eyes and describe every single detail of that april afternoon but, right now, i’m not the one walking down the tuileries.
