By Sarah G.
It is an anonymous call. Instant sadness created by a stranger who walks the streets of Paris just like me and him. An unknown voice on the other end of the red phone that hangs on my brick wall. I did not bother to hook the receiver back on the hanger. I let it slip from my clammy hands so the mysterious speaker could only be heard by my authentic Siberian rug.
My black pumps clack along the stream smoothed pebbles of my street. I keep walking although my knees feel as if they will buckle at any instant. The natural swing of my arms is nonexistent, they lay limp next to my course, green cashmere skirt. The black Beatles shirt that rests on my goose pimped skin is starting to have a uncomfortable palpation about it. Local shops pass by me as my eyes search for a destination that will never arrive. I pass the small bakery where many memories were created with him. I still remember the burning smell that always hung in the air in the small shop. It was caused by the incineration of lose threads that hung from the frayed, homemade heat gloves as they pulled the freshly baked cinnamon raisin bread from the oven.
It’s been two days, nine hours, and eleven minutes since I last saw him. I remember our conversation, his outfit, even the expressions he was wearing as I told him the story of my day. How his usual smooth tone was taken away by his cold, and replaced by a crackly, deep voice, that I was unfamiliar with.
I push through the crowd. I felt like a salmon who was traveling downstream during spawning season. People pushed me out of the way as if I was a old doll that just had been replaced by the newest and greatest model. I cut off the main street into a small dark ally. I stood there in the darkness and began to cry.