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“You look tall”, he said on Facebook

April 26, 2016

But then messaged to say he’d been too shy to say something else.

Saturday was nice with him, an afternoon at Starbucks’ bar table, chairs too high for me to touch the floor from, massive windows overlooking the street. I, swinging legs, drew on paper napkins and watched cars go by. He was stressed, studying for a big flight on Monday (which he passed), but I was quite alive to the old yellow stoned buildings, clear sky, big tuffy clouds. When I’m happy, I remember in sepia. My breaths are slower there. 

If happiness has its own air, it must be denser than oxygen, forcing us to breathe deeper, more fully, more intensely. Afternoons like Saturday have been few, my collection of sepia photographs scant. Peace has its own scent, a liquid coloring. Synesthesia makes music see colours, but I declare myself the first to feel a coloured smell. My nose prefers it there.

Tomorrow, I will drive to the post office, ostensibly to purchase stamps (and I will), but more pressingly to commande mon freshlymade chocolatine. And stock up on substantial munchies for the odd hour. Living under most roofs has had its restraints. But time glides on anyway.

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