when my grandfather met you he called you pierre. because that is what all french men are called.
mardi 24 mai 2011
but i still couldn't make a decision. so i bought a coffee and wrote him a little note. i can't remember what it said, but it had my number on it. and i went back.
i walked directly to him and thrust out my note and blurted out something about my number. he didn't understand, i was talking too fast. he stood close to me, showed me something he was writing in his notebook. words appeared on a page that i couldn't focus on. he explained he was writing me a note to leave with the bartender.
[i read that note so many times since he gave it to me i should have it memorized. it was stolen when all of my belongings were stolen in the Grand Vol of 2009.]
it said something about how i had smiled at him when he walked in with the door closing behind him and he knew that anything was possible in a city like new york. that i had a stain that was the exact twin of his on his chick ("cheek"). and then the note broke off because i had walked in the door.
he didn't have a phone number in new york, and so he gave me his internet address. i have that still. thankfully.
lundi 28 février 2011
i was wearing my favorite shirt. it was march, and spring was in the air.
he sat at the bar, and pretended to write in his notebook (this much i learned later). a piece of paper dropped to the floor, and i saw my opportunity to talk to him.
with his "merci" i knew immediately that he wasn't from these parts.
a few more coy smiles, and i left without speaking to him.