Saturday, March 29, 2008
Earlier this morning I played my Edith Piaf songs to my friends Jenny and Jessica, but now, I'm avoiding doing my taxes by sitting here sipping a glass of pink Cava, listening to Barcelone, sung by Boris Vian. I'm remembering last summer in Barcelona, getting my ass pinched in a crowded bar. I'm remembering getting tipsy riding the boat on the Seine and then getting subsequently lost in the streets of Paris with Anthony. Now my iTunes are spinning Ne Me Quitte Pas by Jacques Brel. I'm remembering the bicitaxi trips in the middle of the night in the potholed streets of Havana. I'm remembering the last time I saw Alexei, saying goodbye, not knowing when would be the next time, not realizing that it might be the last (or perhaps somehow I knew). I'm remembering the tears, clutching his skin, the taxi patiently waiting for us to let go. I'm remembering sitting down in the seat and closing the door, seeing his face through the window, cracking the window so I could hang onto the sensation of his touch for as long as the taxi allowed me. I'm remembering the sound of the revving engine as the accelerator was pressed down, and how our fingers were forced to separate. I'm remembering the last image that I have of him becoming smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror, until the taxi turned the corner and he was gone.