Ah ha! And to think that I'd almost forgotten about my dear shitty Chinois! The microwave heat, the sitting still water oh, the memories. This was real Paris to me those years back when a floor was suited just fine for sleeping on. The city's been flooding back all day, walking past Bastille, past the metro at Filles du Calvaire and the corner at Rue Bretagne, the one with the ATMs, where I'd waited for Olivia that cold, cold November night ago. I'll say it's much different in the summer sun. No chill in the bone, it's a sweat on the brow instead, and nostalgia, and Cafe Charlot. It must be the company that a memory clings to; her long fur coat, her deep rouge lips.
I have to smile. I had been writing in a shitty Chinois that night too. I was so, so young, pacing in circles in the tangerine light, freezing from fingers to toes right down to the core of me, wishing for her to be there, and suddenly she was, I remember.
It's these muses that cross our path, like glue that keeps the sand from sieving through, they're the heavy anchor in turbulent seas, I remember. Beige jacket, red pants; of course I remember Rachel when I see the galleries. They may be different now (JR's long moved on to bigger and grander iterations), but really it's the corners, life's intersections where the streets meet that are most clear and familiar. Walking with Rachel I remember right where the broken toilet was on the corner across the street from American Apparel. That memory might well outlast the facing storefront. After all, it's been six years nearly. A lot can happen for a fashion brand in six years. A lot of mistakes can be made, but it's still here. For now.
