Femmes: Sylvia's Library

It's quiet-ish. I've been here before. I forget it's summer now, not the lonesome cold of late fall that I remember, and so I'm not alone, no, far from it.  It's not just Sylvia and me set alone with her books today with the windows closed against the biting cold.  I see none of her webs, I hear none of her whispers in the silence.  It's hot outside.  Tourists hush about taking pictures in front of the "Please Do Not Take Pictures" sign.  I'm not depressed like I was, which makes things different and the only free seat is by, you've probably guessed it dear reader, a fucking writer type; or maybe it's just a sneaky mirror.

There's a furrow in his brow.  I know it, I don't even have to look up.  I can feel his messy corduroy pants angst on the humid French from the whispering tour guide, and the Paris air and he's had enough, he's gone.  Good riddance fucking tortoise-rimmed glasses and knapsack bag.  Good riddance to the iPad too, that's what all the writers are using these days, the real ones with their tortured souls and their "poetry"

Perhaps I spoke too soon.  Have you got a grasp on my thoughts now? Have you? Do my feelings pervade?  Good, because we must part ways now, there's a beautiful girl sitting in the corner and we keep making eyes at each other.  Take a picture of her dear reader, lest we forget, the Irishman from the cafe is a photographer after all.