Slipping

Down the little side street where a week ago I took a photograph just as a flock of pigeons decided to take flight. Now it was dark, a soft gradual darkening, and there were no pigeons.

A linger of a laugh, a trace of a smile, or many smiles, a slip of warmth through the fingers.

Dreams of faraway places, fireplaces in spaces too hot for them, a gathering of books for hungry eyes and hungry minds to feast upon, of coffees and computers and teas and crepes.

I keep thinking of the little lemon house, which I'm sure is not really yellow but is yellow in my memory, because we smelled the yellow scent of lemon even if all we saw were peaches, flowers, figs and filtered sunshine.

So with bright yellow in my mind, I picked my way through the Friday night sidewalk crowd. I bought a bottle of orange juice and juggled a careless conversation with the two bored men behind the counter; one of them had asked, "So what are your plans for the rest of the evening?"

I know these streets now, unlike three weeks ago, perhaps four, perhaps more. I have a map of time and a map of memories which I navigate by.

Past the patisserie on a corner opposite, drifting into another street which oddly seems a little different each time I slip through. The place was unmarked, neither was its stairway, but I knew my way by sound and by the light of the cheddar moon.

04 May 2002, Saturday, 9:44 PM

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Alter ego of dandruff

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