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When you arrived at my place
you sat on the bed. I had no chairs; I ate standing because no one ever came to me. Dishes, forks, all in the singular. For a week, I drank my coffee there where you had sat because your scent lingered. I searched for it by its notesâ resin, perhaps musk, passion fruit maybe. La recherche? I asked you. How did you know? What wouldnât a lonely woman do to learn just a little about another, without risking buying chairs for the future, only to have one remain empty, heavy from the low atmospheric pressure, just as the snow would scatter on the window the last stainless-steel sparrows.
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