Magic hours.

The water in the bathtub sighs heat, reeling me into itself. Limbs ache in a way that I am unacquainted with--subtle; searing. I slink my eyelids shut (ice cubes rest, invisible against lashes) and visualize tawny skin and the smell of a thousand waterfalls. If you asked me to teach you this language, I would say no. You aren't ready for it. Neither am I, for that matter. The house washed stone-gray in that field, somewhere in the far reaches of Argentina, grazes my thoughts. I remember its taste; the way the gnarled floor felt beneath my naked feet, and the wet haze that hung like an unseen gauze in the air, twisting down my throat. I am hungry again for that. This water is the same temperature as my sweat-glazed skin, and it tastes like nothing.

Hours ago, I sat folded into a red red booth across from Meg. Angular black glasses framed her face, and our hands played against wine glasses. I read aloud to her from Truman Capote's book called "Music for Chameleons", and all the while she sketched fitfully; beautifully in her brown journal. We decided together that bravery and taking a few skinny chances makes sense for now. Don't you think?

Then I walked to Paris and back. It was quite nice. I took three delicate bites of an almond croissant, listened for a while to a French couple having an argument in the street, took a metro to Montmarte, had a drag of a cigarette, and then walked home. I considered staying indefinitely, but decided against it. For what reason, I can't now quite remember. Back home in my apartment with the dimmest lighting, the dishes lay undone and my cat cried for her dinner. And so, I took my feet back to the collection of rooms and walls that are my own, at least for this evening. I fumbled with the fireplace, heated some soup and turned the pages of a book, softly and slowly. It was not a bad night.