How very happy

I sink into the metro, beaming sunshine from my tanned cheeks. Becoming a Parisian again, I trespass, surpass, and skillfully avoid people, knowing the tunnels, turns, shortcuts by heart. People are guessing where I was, where I am going, what is in my handbag. The precise decisions about how many siblings I have, if I am happy, maybe she studied medicine, or perhaps she is coming from a dinner with her lover, perhaps she has no lover at all, virgin, possibly, no make-up, colorful eyes, immigrant, from Russia, perhaps, perhaps. I do the same. I judge, I guess, and find all the truths: as I never ask - all I guess is true.

I get off from the second wagon, the first door, right in front of the exit. Take the right side of the escalator, advancing slowly. This early, chilly Saturday night, still missing the usual weekend's drunks, broken wine bottles, unconsciously pitched voices, loud laugh, this night calls me by my name, and I tell her about the sun on my skin, the sea wounds on my feet, the love that made me say how happy, how very happy I am with him. He said he was also. And he meant it.

Privileges

He managed to discover the real woman in me.

Often sulky, cranky, grumpy, jealous, moody.

I hope he takes it as a privilege.