clouds
They let their bodies relax into the sand. Relieved but unsatisfied. Neither of them felt the way they expected. Too much buildup to what just happened, or too much anticipation for what’s soon to come? This wasn’t their first time and they both knew it would be their last. But it was the first time they didn’t have to hide. Yet, that expected feeling of liberation, of floating, never arrived. Is freedom in the feeling or the expression?
They looked into each other. Both saw disappointment, frustration, and fear. But also love. Always love.
She looked up at the cloudless sky, wishing she could see just one lonely puff floating by. She sighed, then reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the lighter and pack of cigarettes. Only two left. She smirked, put them both between his lips and lit them. He inhaled, deeper than usual, then tried to blow the smoke high enough to create a new cloud. “Just one lonely puff,” he thought. He smiled at her. Her smirk spread into warmth and joy. He put one of the cigarettes between her lips.
They lay there in silence until the cigarettes were ash. Neither of them had the courage or willpower to look at the horizon. “But this will never happen again,” he thought. “This will never happen again,” she said plaintively. She pressed her hand into his chest to sit herself up. He followed, putting his arm around her. They set their eyes on the horizon at the last possible moment. The flash nearly blinded them. Both squinted as the fire and smoke rushed at them like a rabid beast. Both felt comforted by an absurd appreciation for the newly formed cloud rising above the blaze. One lonely puff that will never float by.
They looked into each other again. Both saw courage, compassion, and reassurance. But also freedom and love. Always love.
innocence
Champs-Elysees. Early A.M. Paris was deserted. Paris was ours. So a friend and I spent the morning in a friendly place downing shots and pints. Fuel for the conquests to come.
We headed out slightly sober and ready for anything. Barely out the door, my friend readily gravitated toward the first two women offering a second glance and a smile. I looked them over. Prostitutes. One with an Adam’s Apple. I decided to let him figure it out for himself. So I lit a cigarette, leaned against some tall shade and watched the people emerging across the street.
Directly across from me was a small child illuminated by both sun and neon. She was no more than five and placed on an old crate with an older accordion and even older change bucket tattooed with the word ‘merci’ in bold. I was seized by her indifference. She never lifted her head. Not to shake the unwashed hair out of her eyes. Not at the dull thud of change hitting the bucket’s interior. Not even to acknowledge the unending slew of words describing either how cute or how pathetic she looked. She just played. Played for what seemed like days. Never tiring. Never succumbing to boredom or distraction. Her arms just perpetually expanded and contracted in rhythm with the non-rhythmic flow winding through her mind.
My trance was soon broken by the presence of another. I broke away to discover someone leaning against the other side of the tree. He was tattered, soiled, obviously without home and equally possessed with our now mutual vision across the street. Then I noticed a sharp blistering pain between my fingers. My cigarette had burned down to my skin and began to eat its way through before dying from a lack of oxygen. Or self-worth. I gently blew on the wound and re-turned my eyes to the child. Feeling slighted by the last cigarette, I lit a new one and handed it thoughtlessly to my new comrade. He kept his focus and accepted it with an appreciative nod. I lit one for myself and we stood there smoking in silence.
We finished and simultaneously stamped out our cigarettes. He put a hand on my shoulder and said in a deep, guttural voice – innocence, mon ami, innocence. I looked down, smiled, and nodded in agreement. He gave me a few fatherly taps and departed.
My other friend, either sufficiently frustrated or slightly wiser, appeared and suggested we try our luck in another part of town. I agreed with something similar to a grunt. We crossed the street and headed east. I slowed while passing the prodigy and emptied my pockets into the bucket. She never noticed.