and then there was the morning

when the poplars and birch trees would hang, listlessly beaten by the wind, emaciated modiglianis, awaiting the first warm thrush of spring evening. and so i remember getting up gingerly, as she was still sleeping, and then when her eyes opened, suggesting brunch.

it was one of those diners where the smell of dead maple leaves combined with that of gasoline, managing a charm as only an eternal boxcar can. the type of place where the old waitresses, with their heavy lipstick and boston accents, asked, "what'll it be, sweetie?" and you could answer, "chocolate milk, ma'am." or, "two double vodka highballs and two for yourself, and i'll take you back to your place and shag you rotten." and they'd reply, "very good, sweetie," flashing a bright smile.

the food was good and simple. coffee and french toast with apples and cinnamon. and you didn't mind the stale scent of bloody marys, nor the staler scent of pallid students after their long night out.

(the dahlias were sucked into the morning campfire with a shudder.)

"what are your plans for the day?" she asked.

"i think i'm gonna try to get some work done later. you?"

"oh, nothing in particular. let's walk around for a bit?"

"sure."

we stepped outside.

"can i grab a smoke?"

"yeah."

"bless your soul."

the ghastly stranger lit the cigarette and continued on, muttering inexplicable verse.

we walked around the streets looking into the furniture shops and art stores. violet seemed engrossed by the experience, and i liked looking at the paintings by the local artists, which hung on the plush walls of most stores. many were predictable subway deptictions, abandoned vans, and cafe scenes. a particular painting caught me. it seemed to be a poster for the circus, with a red hussar, and a severe trapeze, an orange tiger, his paw morphing into flames and a curious ruby eye. the ringleader was emblazoned with a delicate pencil mustache, emphasizing the heavenly russian sect of circus performer lore.

"you should buy that," violet said.

"nah, maybe next time. are you cool? i should probably be going."

"yeah," as she fingered a beaded curtain with empty hands.

on the street, i kissed her goodbye, which was something waiting to become another thing, and we parted.

later that afternoon, i walked to the square where the university's gothic cathedral pandered to the lunar gloss. i stepped into the coffee shop, ordered an au laite, and began to read. i'd always read before i'd write, if only to make the world more real, or perhaps simply to shed dead skin. hemingway was a wonderful companion, and i watched the fishermen of the seine fish with their long poles to catch the goujon.

i realized i had nothing to write and left feeling very empty. but it had begun snowing, and the stars were wilting, their stems cast aglow in the dim streetlight, and no longer dying a thirsty death.