"Hey."
"Hey."
"Did I wake you?"
"No."
Silence. See, somewhere beneath her skin, she wanted to wake him. Wanted to pull him out of sleep beneath a darkened sky, that moment of confused vulnerability. The bruise of it, beneath the tenor of his voice.
"We're eight hours behind you, Sera." Patience. The muted murmur of his voice as he shifts the phone, squeezes it between shoulder and ear. Reaches for a bottle of something and sliiides the glass door open to the patio, ducking outside. There's less noise out here. He can see the stars.
They're just starting to come out.
"I know it's ridiculous o'clock where you are, but you'd have to keep normal hours. Get up before three in the afternoon and maybe you'll be able to wake me when you call. What's up?"
It's dark. Everything's closed but somehow the traffic still strafes through. Quieter now, and different yes, but always moving, a lovely river of light. She is sitting on the stone curb surrounding L'eglise de la Madeleine, smoking a cigarette. Somehow has wedged her spine between two spokes of the wrought-iron fence surrounding the monumental church, and half-turned to draw her legs up on the narrow perch too. The iron is so solid. The streets, at this hours, both so empty and so illumined that some part of her thinks it is all for her.
And she realizes: it is all for her.
Her heart stops a moment. She doesn't know why her feet hurt. She does not even think about her shoes.
"Thought I'd say hi."
"How's Paris?"
That makes her laugh. Loll her head back and laugh, oh, consider the night, consider the sky. Consider everything, before she answers the only way she knows how:
"Squiggly."
He breathes out a laugh. Five thousand miles away, and still somehow right in her ear.
"Where are you?"
"Fuck if I know."
"Ask Hawksley."
"He's not here. He went somewhere. I couldn't go." Oh, look. There's Ladurée down the street. It's closed.
"I want a macaron."
"Sera." A pressure to his voice; like an incision. "Do you know how to get home?"
"'Course." She lies, all reassuringly, dropping her forehead to the little speaker on the iPhone from which his voice sounds. Nuzzling it, all reassuringly. "Where's my cigarette? I'm gonna go."
"Hey."
"Did I wake you?"
"No."
Silence. See, somewhere beneath her skin, she wanted to wake him. Wanted to pull him out of sleep beneath a darkened sky, that moment of confused vulnerability. The bruise of it, beneath the tenor of his voice.
"We're eight hours behind you, Sera." Patience. The muted murmur of his voice as he shifts the phone, squeezes it between shoulder and ear. Reaches for a bottle of something and sliiides the glass door open to the patio, ducking outside. There's less noise out here. He can see the stars.
They're just starting to come out.
"I know it's ridiculous o'clock where you are, but you'd have to keep normal hours. Get up before three in the afternoon and maybe you'll be able to wake me when you call. What's up?"
It's dark. Everything's closed but somehow the traffic still strafes through. Quieter now, and different yes, but always moving, a lovely river of light. She is sitting on the stone curb surrounding L'eglise de la Madeleine, smoking a cigarette. Somehow has wedged her spine between two spokes of the wrought-iron fence surrounding the monumental church, and half-turned to draw her legs up on the narrow perch too. The iron is so solid. The streets, at this hours, both so empty and so illumined that some part of her thinks it is all for her.
And she realizes: it is all for her.
Her heart stops a moment. She doesn't know why her feet hurt. She does not even think about her shoes.
"Thought I'd say hi."
"How's Paris?"
That makes her laugh. Loll her head back and laugh, oh, consider the night, consider the sky. Consider everything, before she answers the only way she knows how:
"Squiggly."
He breathes out a laugh. Five thousand miles away, and still somehow right in her ear.
"Where are you?"
"Fuck if I know."
"Ask Hawksley."
"He's not here. He went somewhere. I couldn't go." Oh, look. There's Ladurée down the street. It's closed.
"I want a macaron."
"Sera." A pressure to his voice; like an incision. "Do you know how to get home?"
"'Course." She lies, all reassuringly, dropping her forehead to the little speaker on the iPhone from which his voice sounds. Nuzzling it, all reassuringly. "Where's my cigarette? I'm gonna go."
But my heart is wild and my bones are steel
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula