1.

A café near the Arc de Triomphe. I almost always sit in the same spot. In the back, to the left, behind the bar. I don’t read. I don’t move. I don’t mess with my cell phone. I’m waiting for someone.

I’m waiting for someone who isn’t coming, and I’m bored, so I watch the sun set over the Escale de l’Étoile.

Last co-workers, last drinks, last stale jokes; slack water for almost an hour, and then Paris finally stretches its legs. Taxis idle; girls come out of the woodwork. The boss dims the lights, and the waiters get younger. They put a little candle on each table—fake ones, that flicker but don’t drip—and pressure me discreetly: have another drink, or beat it.

I have another drink.

 

This is the seventh time (not counting the first two) I’ve come to this dive to drink among the dogs and the wolves. I know because I’ve kept every single one of my bar tabs. At first I must have thought they’d make a nice souvenir; then I guess it was just habit, or some kind of fetishism, but now?

Now I know it’s so I’ll have something to grab onto when I put my hand in my coat pocket. I mean, if these pieces of paper exist, it proves that . . .

That what?

That nothing.

That life is dear, here by the Unknown Soldier.