Spring Time In Paris

There was a quiet that night. He sat in the dark. A blue hue came from the lightpost outside. In the distance, a cat called out for a dance. He heard the hissing for a fight in the alleyway. It was that time of year; either fuck or fight. Spring does that to animals.

He thought about his trips to Paris in the spring back when he was married. They’d go and stay for a week. Walking all over the city. Looking at churches. Old churches with gargoyles on them. Made of stone. She took pictures. Wanted to preserve the memories. Photographs of Notre Dame, The Seine, around St. Germaine, Le Deux Magots. Places where writers met and smoked cigarettes while drinking cheap brandy. He was on the wagon back then. The Americano was his drink of choice.

And all through the week they held hands. Kissed on the train. Made love till all hours of the morning. They were young. Or, was it Paris. Something about that city. Perhaps it was the spring air. They made a promise each year to return to the city of love. And, they did for awhile. Till pressure from real life ran it’s course. Mortgages, car payments, parents wanting grandchildren, credit card debt, it became too much.

He fell off the wagon. Went out drinking every night, particularly in the spring. He’d wander all over town by himself only to come home to a woman who’d given up. There was no longer any fight in her. And, they no longer thought of Paris.

It was quiet that night. He sat in the dark. A blue hue came from the lightpost outside.

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