A Woman in Paris

In an unambitious café on one of the smaller avenues, she took her evening meals. She

kept the objects, events, and duties of her life orderly. Was therefore surprised by love;

by a man’s kindness, crooked smile, large soft hands. This pleasant passion didn’t make life less

immensely mysterious to her. Soon love concluded anyway. He was a restless, ill-focused

fellow. Goodbye to him. The café didn’t change, or the avenue. Love like weather

had passed through. She grew fond of cello music and neither waited for nor ruled out another

incarnation of the love-phenomenon coming up the avenue some day, some night, into the laconic café.