Pressure in AtmosphereJessica Piazza
Stop it he says, as if we are just anywhere, watching the seasons get shorter. We’re shrinking. We’ve never seen Paris. We’ve never gone bowling. I’m overdramatic and lacking in reason. I know. And he sees it. He sizes me up, as I fly in my frenzy: a pounder of doorjambs, a dialing drunkard, the worst of my species, a Lady- in-Waiting. I’m kissing his eyelids and grabbing his jacket. They’re butterfly kisses. He wants to live quietly. ~~ April in Paris is so overrated. The Champs- Elysee girls are walking in threesomes and playing their eyebrow games. Fluttery women, those flaunters of Prada, those calorie-tallyers. They would be watching you hungrily, wooing you. Where is the joy in this? Here we are, walking; it’s fall in Manhattan. The women are hidden: they’re bundled in over- coats, canvassing continents, safe in Chicago or Denver or Iowa. You’re an adventurer hidden in sweater-wool. Watch, I can move you. I’m tired of moving. There’s Paris, Montmartre — a Paris in comic strip colors, too bright. All the women who lure you, they’re safe in Montmartre. I’ll never unearth you, I’ll never be far enough. ~~ Fighting for us is like thinking in palindromes. Starting from scratch, I was working toward something, then pedaling backward, then there — the beginning again, but it’s ended. So what? — you respect me. We’re dancing in circles, it’s frugal fandango — flamboyant but fearful. The sky’s turning dizzying. Losing momentum, the ground is more comforting, rising to meet me. You're firm, and I'm firmament.
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