Often I think about that afternoon
in Paris. April hung down her head
and spit. Umbrellas whipped
about like ripped flags. My lover sulked
in our flat with mac and cheese
and graffitied the foggy windows
with her pinkie finger. I’d had enough
of enough and trudged out for a single pint,
a skunky German beer, at a tiny bar,
then just left. Left and a couple
rights. It was on a side street
I didn’t know. My phone suggested
the shortcut. The rain had stopped.
It was just him and me.
