Sadness in Paris (Part Twelve)

By: Sarah G.

Edited By: Staple

I spend hours in the abandoned Victorian house analyzing the massive map of New York City. I sit in the same small wooden stool where my fiance once sat. The rug still holds the distinctive scent of his in the colorful strings of yarn. Books and journals are stacked on every horizontal surface in the cubic room. It seems small when sitting in the middle, however it is very large compared to most offices.

Leaving through the chipping red front door, I step outside where the air is brisk and the sun is cloaked by many layers of clouds. reaching into my faux leather purse I grab my cell phone. Dialing a number that has not been used yet, I call Antoine (the cab driver who drove to my hotel on my first day in the Big Apple).

“Salut Antoine, j’ai besoin de te parler?” I ask in a desperate tone.

“Bien sûr,” he replays as if we have been friends for years and this is a normal event.

“Je vais vous rencontrer à Le Grainne Cafe sur la 9e Avenue,” I say urgently.

He says very calmly, “vous y voir en 40 minutes.” He hangs up. I let a out a extensive sigh that has been caught in my throat for almost nine hours. I have a friend.



“Hi Anthony, I need to talk to you.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll meet you at the Grainne Cafe on 9th Avenue.”

“See you in 40 minutes.”


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