Fall

A collection of streets transmuted. Kincaid and her army of hipsters declare the Rue Serpolet under construction. “They will do all the work,” she says. “Let them alone.” I say that I’m moving West but she doesn’t believe me. “It’s humid,” she says. I can come back tomorrow and see their progress. “But you’re making me sweat now; so leave.” On the way back to my place I play scene after scene in my head of things that will never happen. Me and Kincaid. A house on a cliff out West. Lots of money and never thinking of anyone. In the shower the water burns. The season is on the edge and at the end of eight weeks I’ll be begging for hot water. I let it burn my skin as if to store it there for later use. I try to take a nap but it’s doesn’t work. It’s nice to feel clean. For the rest of the weekend I didn’t make it out of the apartment.

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